fornia 
lal 

y 


OCSB  LIBRARY 


"In  the  very  act  of  handing,  as  I  reached 
to  make  a  landing" 


SATIRE 

and 

SONG 


Simple  Lays  and  Careless  Rhymes 
Of  Olden  Days  and  Modern  Times 


By 

MAURICE  SWITZER 


NEW  YORK 

BRUNSWICK  SUBSCRIPTION  COMPANY,  Publishers 
225  Fifth  Avenue 


Copyright,  1917 
By  BRUNSWICK  SUBSCRIPTION  COMPANY 


Prepare  for  rhyme — I'll  publish,  right  or  wrong: 
Fools  are  my  theme,  let  satire  be  my  song. 

—BYRON. 


MANY  of  the  verses  and  illus- 
trations published  in  this 
book  appeared  originally  in 
Judge,  and  the  author  hereby  ex- 
presses his  thanks  to  the  editors  of 
that  publication  for  their  kind  per- 
mission to  reprint  them.  He  also 
offers  his  apologies  to  Edgar  Allen 
Poe,  Thomas  Hood  and  Edward 
Fitzgerald,  for  liberties  taken  with 
certain  of  their  verses,  without  their 
permission. 


Contents 


Page 

Purple  Raven 1 

Wake  Up,  Columbia 12 

To  Pierrot 13 

Lines  to  a  Lady  on  the  Fifth  Floor 14 

The  Bills 15 

A  Song  of  the  Engineer 16 

Suspicion   17 

Opportunity   18 

The  Malcontent 20 

Lines  to  a  Picture  of  a  Lady  and  a  Dog 21 

Prayer  of  the  Shorn  Lamb 22 

The  Buccaneers 24 

Thor's  Hammer  Cast 26 

Her  Weak  Point 27 

A  Pipe  Song  . .. 28 

Phyllis  29 

A  Tale  of  Two  Brothers 30 

A  Song  of  the  Sea 37 

To  a  Faded  Rose 39 

Lines  to  a  Straw  Hat 40 

The  Day  of  Rest 41 

Epitaph  for  Your  Cook 42 

The  Passionate  Frenchman  to  His  American  Love 43 

Little  Jane  Homer 44 

The  Coat  of  Content 47 

Life's  Poker  Game 49 

She  Wasn't  Over  Twenty,  but  She  Knew  Her  Little  Book  51 

The  Song  of  the  Skirt 53 

The  Man  of  the  Hour 55 

Long  Live  the  Kaiser ! 56 

The  Difference  57 

Why  Cleo  Was  Late 58 

Owed  to  May 60 

A  Merely  Mexican  Madrigal 62 

Hymn  of  the  Down  and  Outs 64 


Page 

A  Lay  of  the  Races 67 

The  Champion  Fool 69 

The  Turning  of  the  Worm 71 

Song  of  the  Adventurer  Bold 72 

When   73 

The  Broadway  Mother  Goose : 

The  Crooked  Man 76 

Old  Mother  Hubbard 77 

A  Man  in  Our  Church 77 

Doctor  Foster  78 

The  Old  Woman  Who  Lived  in  a  Shoe 78 

The  Old  Man  of  Tobago 79 

Hark !  Hark !  The  Dogs  Do  Bark 79 

Here  Comes  a  Poor  Woman 80 

Johnny  Now  Has  a  New  Master 80 

Hey,  Diddle,  Diddle 81 

Simple  Simon    81 

The  Fat  Man  of  Bombay 82 

When  Jackie  Was  a  Little  Boy 82 

Tom,  Tom,  the  Piper's  Son 83 

Clap  Hands,  Clap  Hands 84 

See  Saw  84 

Humpty  Dumpty 84 

Mrs.  Sol  Grundy 85 

The  Little  Man  With  a  Gun 85 

There  Was  a  Young  Woman  Named  Peg 86 

Little  Tee  Wee 86 

The  Slacker 87 

The  Ruby  Yap  of  Homer  K.  Yam 89 

Biographical  Data 91 

Notes 103 


Illustrations 


"In  the  very  act  of  handing,  as  I  reached 

to  make  a  landing" Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"Nor  e'en  could  silken  slipper  show" 12 

A  Lady  and  a  Dog 20 

"But  try  as  she  might,  it  was  always  a  fight 

To  rise  before  ten  in  the  morning" 26 

"The  place?  Any  suburb.    Time?  Any  holiday" 40 

"The  Troubadour  of  olden  days" 56 

"Thou  art  no  Houri — or  the  Prophet's  lied: 

And  if  thou  art  the  Spirit  of  the  Wine, 
I'll  smash  the  Cup  I've  never  yet  decried" 90 


The  Purple  Raven 

Being  an  attempt  to  brighten  the 
somber  old  Fowl  of  Ancient  Lore, 
by  the  addition  of  a  Little  Local 
Color.  A  sort  of  Nocturne,  in- 
volving a  Bird  and  a  Battle. 


The  Purple  Raven 


ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  in  a  hamlet  on 
the  Erie, 
A  benighted  show  disbanded,  for  the  ghost 

would  walk  no  more. 
Sadly  down  and  out  I  landed  in  the  village  tavern — 

stranded ! 
With  a  wardrobe  second-handed;  in  my  pocket, 

pennies  four; 

With  a  fraction  of  a  nickel  in  my  wallet — pennies 
four — 

Just  that  much  and  nothing  more. 


In  my  hall-room  I  reflected,  growing  gloomy  and 

dejected, 
On  the  far-away   Rialto  with  its  haunts   that  I 

adore; 
There  in  sadness  I  sat  dreaming  of  the  lights  on 

Broadway  gleaming, 
Of  the  happy  faces  beaming,  and  the  city's  mighty 

roar: 
Dreaming  of  the  distant  city  and  its  mad  nocturnal 

roar — 

I  was  sad  and  sick  and  sore! 


Shades  of  Thespis!    I,  MacBarret,  stranded  in  a 

very  garret ! 

I,  Horatio  MacBarret,  who  in  palmy  days  of  yore, 
The  whole  public  press  had  lauded  and  the  people 

had  applauded — 
Aye,  ovations  had  accorded  that  the  roof  asunder 

tore — 
Such  applause  as  split  the  rafters  and  the  dome 

asunder  tore: 

All  of  that  and  something  more. 

"Then,"  I  cried,  "is  this  the  ending  of  a  genius  great 
— transcending ! 

O  relentless  Fate,  unbending,  give  me  answer,  I 
implore!" 

Thus  the  fickle  Dame  invoking,  a  dill-pickle  I  sat 
smoking, 

And  the  fumes  of  which  were  choking — it  was  rot- 
ten to  the  core: 

'Twas  a  property  cigar — nameless,  punk  to  very 
core! 

Made  of  cabbage — nothing  more. 

Thus  in  pain  I  cogitated  on  that  enterprise  ill-fated, 

Widely  billed  with  flaring  posters  —  three  sheet, 
eight,  and  twenty-four — 

As  a  "Monster  Presentation  with  a  Cast  of  Reputa- 
tion." 

(Meaning  me)   Its  appellation  was  "Why  Mazie 
Quit  the  Store." 

And  by  dint  of  iron  nerve  and  brazen  front  I  played 
the  store: 

Only  that  and  nothing  more. 


Would  my  eminence  diminish  'till  at  last  my  abject 
finish 

Was  to  pose  in  moving  pictures,  as,  perhaps,  a 
matador — 

Or  some  figure  less  exalted — some  harlequin  as- 
saulted, 

Madly  chased,  lassooed  and  halted  by  some  burly 
stevedore? 

I  could  see  my  form  upon  the  screen  beneath  the 
stevedore, 

Oozing  sweat  from  every  pore ! 

Here,  the  need  of  dough,  however,  made  me  sit  up 

and  endeavor 
To  fling  aside  these  reveries  that  so  heavy  on  me 

bore. 
It  was  up  to  me  to  borrow  or  to  beat  it  on  the 

morrow — 

So  I  realized  in  sorrow  as  I  paced  my  chamber  floor ; 
I  saw,  "Beat  it,  beg  or  borrow!"  written  on  the 

chamber  floor — 

Only  that  and  nothing  more. 

Oh,  for  one  I  could  politely  touch  for  ten!  'Twas 

useless — really, 
In  advance  I  knew  the  answer  to  a  touch — 'Tis 

ancient  lore. 
Then  as  prospects  looked  most  dreary,  and  I  sat 

despondent,  weary, 
I   heard    someone    singing   "Dearie" — 'Twas    the 

ingenue,  Lenore. 
Ah,  a  voice  just  like  the  whistle  on  the  Erie,  had 

Lenore : 

Like  a  siren,  only  more. 
5 


Dwelt  on  Easy  Street  this  lady,  on  the  favored  side 

called  shady, 
But  no  mummer  knew  the  angel  who  financed  the 

fair  Lenore. 
Unto  her  my  faith  I'd  anchor!  She'd  consent  to  be 

my  banker, 
Or,  by  all  the  gods,  I'd  spank  her!     This  most 

solemnly  I  swore, 
As  she  presently  stood  posing  at  my  door.    That 

much  I  swore: 

She  had  plenty,  and  some  more. 

Quite  ingenuous  and  easy,  after  fashion  Japanesey, 

She  declined  the  chair  I  offered  and  sat  down  upon 
the  floor. 

There  she  squatted  on  the  matting  and  kept  vacu- 
ously chatting, 

While  I  lied  without  the  batting  of  an  eyelid  as  I 
swore 

She  possessed  a  voice  the  like  of  which  was  never 
heard  before; 

(Outside  madhouse) — ne'er  before. 

Here,  right  skillfully  I  pleaded  for  the  ten-spot 

that  I  needed, 
And  she  readily  assented,  as  I'd  guessed  some  time 

before. 
Then  there  came  a  sound  perplexing,  at  the  moment 

of  annexing 
That  fair  ten-spot:    this  was  vexing!     Someone 

knocking  at  the  door! 
'Twas  some  butter-in,  unwelcome,  knocking  at  my 

chamber  door — 

It  was  sick'ning,  nothing  more. 

6 


"This  is  certainly  distressing!"  I  remarked — my- 
self addressing — 

"A  most  unwelcome  visitor  come  to  thwart  me,"  so 
I  swore. 

Still,  a  calm  demeanor  feigning,  I  stalked  off  un- 
complaining, 

Yet  with  little  heart  remaining,  and  I  opened  wide 
the  door; 

But  the  odor  of  the  kitchen  floated  through  the 
open  door — 

Only  that  and  nothing  more. 

"I  was  probably  mistaken — by  the  wind  the  door 

was  shaken," 
Said  I,  glad  indeed,  no  visitor  was  come  to  scare 

Lenore; 
But  I  scarcely  was  reseated  ere  the  rapping  was 

repeated, 
And  again  I  was  defeated — aye,  when  just  about  to 

score ! 

Then  I  raced  across  the  floor: 


Quick  I  flung  aside  the  shutter,  when,  without  a 
flirt  or  flutter, 

A  curious  Purple  Raven  did  into  the  chamber  soar: 

And  I  watched  it  much  astounded,  really  speechless 
and  dumbfounded, 

Calmly  circle  twice  around  it,  then  alight  on  Theo- 
dore— 

Calmly  land  upon  a  pallid,  plaster  bust  of  Theodore . 
(Worth  a  quarter — hardly  more.) 


Said  the  fair  Lenore,  arising  all  atremble,  "How 

surprising!" 
Here  her  confidence  and  courage  I  proceeded  to 

restore. 
I  remarked  that  in  New  Haven,  they  produced  that 

brand  of  Raven, 
But  in  truth,  so  queer  a  craven  I  had  heard  of  ne'er 

before ; 
Such  a  curious  Purple  Raven  I  had  heard  of  ne'er 

before — 

He  sat  brooding — nothing  more. 

Howsoever,  I  fell  musing,  'twas  ridiculous  refusing 
To  harbor  this  queer  prodigy  from  some  unknown, 

distant  shore; 
I  could  sell  him  on  the  morrow!   Happy  thought! 

And  now  to  borrow 
Ten.     Quite  listless  sat  the  Raven  on  the  bust  of 

Theodore. 
Scarcely  blinked — just  sat  in  silence  on  the  bust  of 

Theodore: 

Half  awake  and  nothing  more. 

I  had  courage  now  in  plenty,  so  I  raised  the  touch 
to  twenty, 

And  Lenore,  she  took  it  calmly — simply  nodded, 
nothing  more. 

But  I  saw  the  Raven  blinking — rather,  insolently 
winking — 

'Till  I  couldn't  keep  from  thinking  he  was  tipping 
off  Lenore; 

But  reflecting  on  her  future,  unobservant  sat  Le- 
nore: 

Here  I  brought  her  to,  once  more. 

8 


Said  she,  "Surely!  In  a  minute — just  you  wait  till 

I  unpin  it." 
And  then  digging  up  a  wad  she  soon  peeled  off  one 

golden  score. 
In  the  very  act  of  handing,  as  I  reached  to  make  a 

landing, 
She  quite  floored  me  by  demanding,  "Say,  when 

will  you  this  restore? 
I  would  like  to  know  for  certain  when  this  twenty 

you'll  restore?" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore !" 

How  I  trembled  'twixt  vexation — rage — surprise — 
exasperation! 

Oh,  was  ever  man  confounded  by  a  bird  like  this 
before? 

Cried  I,  "Thing  of  evil,  learned  in  the  devil's  art! 
Goldurn  it ! 

Beast!  when  said  you  I'd  return  it?"     Quoth  the 
Raven,  "Nevermore!" 

Thus  the  wretched  fowl  reiterated  calmly,  "Never- 
more." 

Only  that  and  nothing  more. 

Said  Lenore,  "How  very  funny!    I — I — think  I'll 

keep  my  money — 
I  believe  that  bird's  our  hoodoo — he's  pursuing  us ! 

O,  Lor!" 
'Round  the  wad  her  fingers  tightened  and  her  rosy 

face  grew  whitened, 
As  she  stumbled,  badly  frightened,  towards  the 

open  chamber  door — 
And  she  never  stopped  a  minute  when  she  reached 

the  open  door — 

Simply  beat  it,  nothing  more. 

9 


As  she  left,  my  hope  departed,  and  I  stood  there 
broken-hearted, 

Gazing  blankly  at  the  darkened  hall  beyond  the 
chamber  door. 

"She'll  return  again,"  I  muttered,  but  the  words 
were  scarcely  uttered 

When  the  Raven  croaked  and  sputtered  his  por- 
tentous "Nevermore!" 

Just  to  mock  me  in  my  sorrow  he  kept  croaking 
"Nevermore !" 

From  his  perch  on  Theodore. 

Out  my  stupor  then  I  started  for  this  taunt  a  sting 
imparted, 

That  unloosed  my  store  of  cuss-words  and  a  stream 
I  did  outpour! 

Screaming,  "Demon !  Fiend !  You  Craven  of  a  blab- 
bing, prating  Raven ! 

If  from  hell  or  from  New  Haven,  get  thee  out  my 
chamber  door!" 

Here  I  flung  a  pitcher  at  him,  hit  and  shattered — 
Theodore ! 

Flew  the  Raven  to  the  floor. 

There  he  grew  above  the  table,  like  the  giant  Roc 

of  fable — 
Then  he  grabbed  me  by  the  collar  with  a  yank  that 

hurt  me  sore. 
Next  he  clawed  me,  bit  and  poked  me,  stood  me  off 

again  and  soaked  me, 
Jerked  me  back  again  and  choked  me,  till  I  sank 

upon  the  floor. 
Till  all  consciousness  departed  and  I  swooned  upon 

the  floor. 

'Twas  my  finish,  nothing  more. 

10 


I  awoke.    The  sun  was  streaming  through  the  case- 
ment.   Was  I  dreaming? 

Was  this  silken  couch  I  lay  on  an  illusion,  nothing 
more? 

Were  these  tapestries  and  drapings  all  around  me 
mental  fakings? 

Merely  visionary  shapings  that  a  subtle  likeness 
bore — 

Yes,  a  strange  familiar  likeness  to  environments  of 
yore? 

Was  I  smoking — nothing  more? 

No !  Ye  gods  and  little  fishes !  Yon  debris  of  bottles 

— dishes — 
Those  cigar  and  cigarette  butts  all  the  chamber 

scattered  o'er, 
To  quick  consciousness  restore  me.    Then  I  knew, 

and  then  I  swore  me, 
With  the  Raven  still  before  me,  I'd  drink  soda 

evermore ! 
And  whene'er  the  Tempter  lures  me,  bids  me  hit  it 

up  once  more, 

Half  is  soda — maybe  more. 


11 


Wake  Up,  Columbia 

A  Marching  Song 

LET  the  bugles  ring,  Columbia,  unsheath  your 
mighty  sword! 
Across  the  blue  Atlantic  waits  a  great  embattled 

horde. 
An  alien  foe  affronts  you  and  his  proud,  defiamt 

knights 

Have  scoffed  at  your  traditions  and  have  trampled 
on  your  rights. 

CHORUS: 

Wake  up!  arise,  Columbia)  fling  your  banner  to  the 

skies! 

For  liberty  is  fettered  and  the  pinioned  eagle  cries! 
Show  the  nations,  proud  Columbia,  that  the  spirit 

moves  you  still, 
That  led  us  on  at  Concord  and  prevailed  at  Bunker 

Hill! 


Then  sound  the  charge,  Columbia,  and  with  mighty 

thrust  of  steel, 
Do  your  bit  to  lift  from  Europe  the  oppressor's  iron 

heel! 
Raise  the  flag  on  ev'ry  rampart,  let  it  flutter  o'er  the 

sea, 
Plant  Old  Glory  in  the  trenches  as  the  emblem  of  the 

Free! 

12 


"Nor  e'en  could  silken  slipper  show" 


3 

Let  them  write  us  down  as  cowards  with  souls  for- 
ever lost, 

When  we  fail  to  rise  for  Freedom  nor  stop  to  count 
the  cost ; 

We'll  march  with  Tommy  Atkins  and  we'll  liquidate 
the  debt, 

Too  long  already  owed  to  France,  who  sent  us  Lafay- 
ette! 


To  Pierrot 

DEJECTED  Pierrot,  lift  thy  head 
And  string  anew  thy  lute. 
What  boots  it  if  the  leaves  are  dead 
As  blinded  Love  is  mute? 

Ere  Moses  in  the  Nile  was  hid, 

Ere  Joseph  had  been  sold — 
Or  Cheops  built  his  pyramid — 

Thy  tale  was  ages  old. 

Far  wiser  fools  than  thou,  Pierrot, 

Have  sued  for  favors  few, 
Nor  e'en  could  silken  slipper  show — 

Some  got  her  sire's  shoel 


13 


Lines  to  a  Lady  on  the  Fifth  Floor 

(From  the  Gentleman  on  the  Fourth) 

LADY  on  the  floor  above, 
Charming,  chic,  entrancing. 
You're  the  type  that  I  could  love, 
But  I  hate  your  dancing! 

Pleasant,  your  infectious  laugh, 

Musical  and  rippling: 
But  your  dreadful  phonograph 

Soon  will  have  me  tippling. 

Tango,  trot  and  bunny  hug 

All  your  heart  desires ; 
Only,  lady,  use  a  rug — 

'Till  my  lease  expires. 


The  Bills 

HERE'S  the  postman  with  the  bills, — 
Christmas  bills! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  gray 

January  kills ! 

How  the  bills  keep  on  arriving 
By  the  dozens  in  each  mail, 

While  my  weary  pen  I'm  driving 
Over  reams  of  paper,  striving 
To  frame  excuses  stale 
Into  some  artistic  stall 
That  will  stand  'em  off  'till  Fall. 
And  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  'phone  induces 

chills, — 

It's  bills,  bills,  overdue  Christmas  bills — 
Collectors  on  the  telephone  with  bills. 


15 


A  Song  of  the  Engineer 

PRAISE  if  you  will  his  dizzy  flights 
And  the  birdman's  daring  deeds; 
Sing  if  you  will  of  your  visored  knights 
On  their  sturdy,  armored  steeds; 
Applaud  the  skill — and  you'll  not  be  wrong — 

Of  the  Roman  charioteer, 
But  I  shall  celebrate  in  my  song 
The  deeds  of  one  unsung  too  long — 

The  valorous  Engineer, 
Besmeared  and  drab  in  his  engine  cab — 
The  valiant  Engineer. 

Oh,  he  drives  his  steed  of  a  hundred  tons 

With  the  speed  of  a  hurricane, 
As  he  splits  the  night  in  his  hurtling  flight 

To  his  siren's  shrill  refrain. 
When  grim  Disaster  stalks  the  track 

In  his  thundering  engine's  van, 
With  resolute  heart  he  plays  his  part 

And  dies  at  the  throttle — a  man! 

Aye,  the  Engineer  is  a  man ! 


16 


Suspicion 


1AM  the  real  iconoclast ; 
I  shatter  hope  and  joy; 
I  am  the  sincere  pessimist, 
With  passion  to  destroy. 
I  mingle  with  the  middle-class 

And  with  the  smarter  set; 
I  am  the  blighting  fog  of  doubt, 
I  am  the  blanket  wet! 

I  am  the  sable  cloak  of  gloom ; 

I  seldom  crack  a  smile. 
I  see  no  joy  in  living, 

I  am  the  god  of  bile. 
Whene'er  the  failure  takes  a  flop, 

I  ease  misfortune's  blow 
By  swelling  up  and  saying,  "Why, 

Of  course,  I  told  you  so!" 

I  am  the  true  obstructionist ; 

I  am  the  evil  eye ; 
I  am  the  cheerful  mourner 

With  the  ever-ready  sigh. 
I  am  the  man  with  free  advice, 

Who  steers  you  off  the  trail : 
Suspicion  is  my  family  name — 

I'm  also  known  as  Fail. 


17 


Opportunity 


OPPORTUNITY,  thou  vague,  uncertain  thing! 
Whose  potency  is  preached,  whose  praises 
poets  sing, 

I  launch  upon  thy  head  this  tirade  of  abuse, 
Thou  friend  of  Failure,  thou  ready-made  Excuse, 
Thou  specious,  tinsel  Idol,  Wizard,  Witch  or  Fay, 
To  whom  the  wistful  Dreamer  and  the  Lazy,  pray ! 
Thou  over-rated,  false,  delusive  Golden  Calf, 
At  whom  the  practical  and  the  courageous  laugh ! 

How  much,  O  Opportunity,  hast  thou  done 
For  those  whose  deeds  have  Fame's  immortal 

chaplet  won? 

Did  not  this  Western  World  lie  in  the  self-same  spot 
For  countless  centuries  ere  Noah  was  begot? 
And  had  Columbus  idly  sat  in  slothful  ease, 
Or  had  he  wooed  thy  favor  on  his  bended  knees, 
Instead  of  stiffening  beneath  frustration's  blow, 
Tell  me,  would  he  have  found  this  continent,  or  no? 

And  what  important  part,  if  any,  didst  thou  play, 
When  old  Ben  Franklin,  on  that  memorable  day 
In  June,  with  silken  kite  and  iron  key  did  wrest 
The  great  Electric  Secret  from  the  storm  king's 

breast? 

And  Bonaparte,  in  Corsica's  secluded  isle  — 
Didst  thou  always  upon  his  enterprises  smile? 
Or  did  he  sally  forth  and  with  relentless  lust, 
Resistless  will — and  skill — grind  kingdoms  in  the 

dust? 

18 


And  Watt  ?  Did  he  await  thy  knock  and  idly  dream 

Of  wondrous,  new  and  mighty  engines  run  by 
steam? 

Or  did  he  toil  until  his  dream  came  true? — and 
Howe — 

Lincoln — Morse — what  won  for  them?  their  in- 
dustry, or  thou? 

So,  scan  the  galaxy  of  illustrious  dead 

Or  living,  O  Opportunity,  and  hide  thy  head ! 

Wherefore  I  sing  to  Will,  to  Judgment  and  to 
Pluck, 

And  not  to  thee,  for  thou  art  merely  twin  to  Luck ! 


19 


The  Malcontent 

TALK  not  to  me  of  war — of  just  and  righteous 
strife; 

Of  lying  Austrians,  Turks  and  Huns, 
I  hate  the  warlike  drum,  the  bugle  and  the  fife, 

Your  armored  cars,  your  bayonetted  guns 
And  all  the  other  glitt'ring  panoply  and  pomp 

Attendant  on  the  progress  of  the  troops 
In  khaki  or  in  blue  that  ever  march  and  romp 

Light-heartedly  with  ringing  songs  or  whoops 
Or  both,  through  every  city  street  and  country  lane 

From  south  of  Florida  to  Hudson  Bay, 
From  west  of  California's  strand  to  east  of  Maine, 
As  if  to  make  a  merry  holiday. 

I  have,  alas !  no  stomach  for  a  rousing  cheer, 

Nor  feel  inspired  by  some  noisy  throng 
To  shake  the  welkin,  when  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
appear, 

By  joining  in  some  patriotic  song; 
And  every  time  a  martial  column  marches  by 

I  curse  the  sorry  day  that  I  was  born, 
While  bootlessly  my  angry  passion  rises  high, 

My  heart  by  various  emotions  torn. 

A  pacifist,  you  say?    You're  wrong;  that  am  I  not! 

Nor  yet  a  slacker.    Therefore  get  this  straight: 
I  stand  in  fear  of  neither  bayonet  nor  shot; 

I  storm  and  fume  because  the  conflict  came  too  late ! 


20 


A  Lady  and  a  Dog 


In  dash  and  spirit  I  am  twenty-five  years  old, 
In  years  some  fifty-five.    "Too  old  to  fight!" 

This,  by  the  lying  beggars  I  am  told ; 

So  I'm  compelled  to  stay  at  home  and — write ! 


Lines  to  a  Picture  of 
a  Lady  and  a  Dog 

HER  parted  lips  recall  the  budding  rose; 
Her  shapely  shoulders  shame  the  lily. 
The  subtle  charm  of  Daphne  marks  her  pose  ; 
Her  hair?  I  fear  the  color's  silly. 

'Twould  take  a  canto  just  to  catalogue 

The  graces  of  her  figure  slender. 
I  quite  forgot  a  couplet  to  the  dog—5 

But,  really,  I  don't  know  its  gender. 


21 


Prayer  of  the  Shorn  Lamb 

PRITHEE  gentle  stranger — or  if,  perhaps,  thou 
art  my  friend — 
Take  what  I  say  in  kindliness;  I  mean  not  to 
offend. 

But  if,  perchance,  thou  hast  a  plan  that  only  doth 
entail 

One  hundred  bucks  to  yield  a  million  profit  without 
fail; 

Or  if,  perhaps,  thou  hast  some  other  simple  little 
scheme 

By  which  to  bring  me  fortune  far  beyond  my  wild- 
est dream — 

Some  inside  information  of  a  confidential  deal 

That  means  much  easy  money  in,  say,  cotton,  wheat 
or  steel; 

Or  dost  thou  merely  wish  to  give  me  free  some 
standard  books; 

To  stake  me  to  a  gratis  ocean  voyage,  via  Cook's ; 

To  sell — nay,  give  me  at  a  dime  a  share  some  oil- 
land  stock; 

Or  fine  suburban  lot  for  naught,  that's  worth  a  city 
block; 

Convey  to  me  an  interest  in  some  wondrous  patent 
new, 

For  say,  perhaps,  a  measly  little  dollar  bill  or  two- 
Then  let  me  tell  thee  ere  thou  dost  attempt  one 
word  to  say, 

'Tis  useless !  So  unfold  no  tale,  but  get  thee  on  thy 
way! 

22 


I've  played  the  string,  nor  left  one  easy  means  to 

wealth  untried: 
But    where    the    meanest    low-brow    might    have 

cashed,  there  have  I  died. 
I  grant  thy  scheme  is  mighty  good,  original  and 

new; 

That  truly  thou  dost  honor  me  by  thy  selection,  too. 
And,  yet,  I  also  know  that  if  gold  nuggets  fell  like 

hail, 

I'd  probably  be  doing  time  within  some  county  jail! 
To  me  all  things  look  good ;  to  every  one  I  hark. 
I  am  the  real  soft  thing — the  ever-ready  easy  mark; 
So  go  thy  way  and  tempt  me  not,  but  be  content  to 

let 
Me  plug  along  and  earn  my  little  wage  by  honest 

sweat. 

I  seek  not  affluence,  nor  yet  some  easy  road  to  fame ; 
I  want  no  sinecure,  nor  care  to  court  the  Fickle 

Dame. 
I  only  ask,  dear  friend,  this  little  boon :  to  work  my 

own 
Salvation,  remain  a  hired  man,  and — to  be  let  alone. 


23 


The  Buccaneers 

WE'RE  led  to  believe  from  the  tales  of  old, 
That  the  buccaneer  was  a  ruffian  bold, 
Who  always  affected  a  scarlet  sash, 
Which  matched  the  color  of  his  fierce  mustache. 
That  his  neck  was  bared  to  his  hairy  chest, 
Tattooed  upon  which  was  a  death's  head  crest; 
That  oft  he  reveled  in  a  red  necktie 
And  an  emerald  patch  upon  one  eye. 
Oh,  his  brow  was  low  and  his  hands  were  gnarled,- 
And  his  jaw  shot  out  as  he  fiercely  snarled 
At  his  cringing  crew  and  shockingly  swore 
To  wade  knee-deep  in  innocent  gore; 
That  pistols  peeped  from  his  top-boots  wide, 
And  a  cutlass  jangled  with  every  stride 
As  he  stamped  the  deck  of  his  pirate  ship 
And  bellowed  commands  with  a  curling  lip. 

Oh,  the  ships  he  sank  and  the  grog  he  drank! 
And  the  innocents  he  made  walk  the  plank! 
As  he  robbed  the  galleons  bound  for  Spain 
In  the  great  old  days  of  the  Spanish  Main. 

Now,  to-day,  though  his  work  is  not  so  rough, 

He  still  is  pulling  the  same  old  stuff. 

His  manners  are  changed  and  his  form  of  dress; 

The  swag  is  greater  but  the  risks  are  less. 

He  has  swapped  his  trim  old  brigantine 

For  a  private  yacht  and  a  limousine. 

24 


He's  a  social  bird  on  a  lofty  perch, 

A  power  in  the  councils  of  state  and  church. 

Oh,  he  stamps  no  decks  and  he  cuts  no  throats 

And  he  seldom  rants  and  he  rarely  gloats; 

He  wears  excellent  clothes  and  tall  top  hats, 

Tortoise-shell  glasses  and  probably  spats; 

His  voice  is  low  and  his  manners  urbane 

And  he  frowns  upon  language  the  least  profane; 

He  never  sheds  blood  in  the  crude  old  way 

That  used  to  be  the  vogue  in  Morgan's  day. 

But,  oh,  his  flights  to  rhetorical  heights 
In  the  marvellous  ads  he  glibly  writes! 
As  he  floats  an  issue  of  watered  stock 
To  subscribe  to  which  the  innocents  flock! 

And  when  he  needs  some  additional  spoil, 
He  elevates  the  price  of  beef  or  oil: 
When  his  lady  fair  for  a  necklace  begs, 
He  adds  a  few  cents  to  the  price  of  eggs. 
Oh,  he  gathers  his  toll,  this  pirate  bold, 
From  the  high  and  the  low,  the  young  and  old; 
He  gives  no  reason  and  he  pleads  no  cause, 
For  his  money  helped  to  enact  our  laws. 
So  we  lift  our  eyes  in  admiring  gaze 
To  him  who  skilfully  managed  to  raise 
The  sanguinary,  blood-stained  buccaneer, 
To  the  painless,  eminent  financier. 


25 


Thor's  Hammer  Cast 

(From  "Gems  (?)  of  German  Thought."    An  Anthology  of  the 
German  War  Scriptures.    Compiled  by  William  Archer.) 

THOR  stood  at  the  midnight  end  of  the  world, 
His  battle-mace  flew  from  his  hand : 
"So  far  as  my  clangorous  hammer  I've  hurled 
Mine  are  the  sea  and  the  land !" 
And  onward  hurtled  the  mighty  sledge 

O'er  the  wide,  wide  earth,  to  fall 
At  last  on  the  Southland's  furthest  edge 

In  token  that  His  was  all. 
Since  then  'tis  the  joyous  German  right 

With  the  hammer,  lands  to  win. 
We  mean  to  inherit  world-wide  might 
As  the  Hammer-God's  kith  and  kin. 

— Felix  Dahn. 


Yea,  he  swung  his  mace  in  a  circle  wide 

And  it  flew  from  his  brawny  fist, 
And  fell  where  the  souls  of  the  Vandals  ride 

Storm-tossed  in  a  crimson  mist! 
Aye,  it  rested  not  on  the  Southland's  edge, 

Where  ye  say  the  hammer  fell, 
For  it  slid  from  there  with  a  broken  pledge, 

To  the  fathomless  pits  of  hell. 
So  now,  'tis  the  German's  joyous  right, 

As  the  Hammer-God's  kith  and  kin, 
To  follow  his  mace  in  its  hurtling  flight 

To  the  home  of  the  Kaiser's  twin. 

26 


"But  try  as  she  might  it  was  always  a  fight 
To  rise  before  ten  in  the  morning." 


For  nothing  shall  stay  ye  now,  O  fools, 
Who  have  reddened  your  neighbor's  sod, 

Till  ye  rest  in  hell's  putrescent  pools 
With  the  mace  of  your  pagan  god ! 


Her  Weak  Point 

|HYLLIS  could  ride,  side-seat  or  astride, 

And  Phyllis  could  drive  her  own  motor; 
She  could  row,  she  could  walk,  and  capably  talk 
On  the  stump  for  the  feminine  voter. 

Phyllis  could  swim  with  vigor  and  vim, 

She  could  dance  till  the  morrow  was  dawning; 

But  try  as  she  might,  it  was  always  a  fight 
To  rise  before  ten  in  the  morning. 


27 


A  Pipe  Song 

I   LOVE  not  your  tankard  of  musty  old  ale, 
Nor  the  brew  of  October  or  May; 
Nor  care  I  a  snap  for  the  colorless  sap 
Of  the  succulent  grape  of  Tokay; 
Not  a  farthing  of  brass  would  I  give  for  a  glass 

Of  the  wine  that  is  rosy  and  ripe 
As  lips  made  to  kiss — Oh,  my  notion  of  bliss 
Is  a  pull  at  my  good  old  pipe ! 

Oh,  give  me  a  pipe  of  the  god-like  weed 

And  the  demon  of  gloom  is  a  joke; 
For  the  blackest  despair  will  dissolve  in  the  air 

With  the  wreaths  of  the  balmy,  blue  smoke. 
You  may  drink  to  your  fill  any  vintage  you  will 

Or  sit  down  with  Lucullus  to  dine, 
But  there's  nothing  I  know  on  this  planet  below, 

I'd  exchange  for  this  old  pipe  of  mine! 


28 


Phyllis 


A 


BUTTERFLY  hovered  on  golden  wings 

Awhile  o'er  a  full  blown  rose 
And  probed  for  the  honeyed,  fragrant  things 
That  in  flowers'  hearts  repose. 


He  tried  a  sip  from  a  daffodil's  lip, 

And  kissed  a  violet  shy; 
Then  up  with  a  wavering  rise  and  dip, 

.He  rose  towards  the  summer  sky. 

But  Phyllis,  who  sat  in  a  garden  chair, 
Dawned  on  the  butterfly's  view: 

He  thought  her  some  fragrant  exotic  rare, 
And  changed  his  course.  Wouldn't  you? 


29 


A  Tale  of  Two  Brothers 


PROLOGUE 

/V  Bilgewater  City,  'twixt  Maine  and  Cape  Horn, 
Henry  and  Peter,  two  brothers,  were  born. 
These  two  were  as  different  as  daylight  from  dark : 
One  was  a  goldfish  and  the  other,  a  shark. 
And  this  is  their  story — it's  more  or  less  true. 
The  tale  may  be  old,  but  the  epilogue's  new. 


HENRY 

Young  Henry  at  school  was  the  joy  of  his  teachers. 

He  was  studious,  apt,  complaisant  and  clean — 
One  of  those  lovable,  shy  little  creatures, 

Who  practice  no  juvenile  tricks  that  are  mean. 


II 

And  Henry  grew  up,  as  was  freely  predicted, 
An  industrious  youth,  straightforward  and  frank, 

And  although  his  chances  for  wealth  were 

restricted, 
He  started  with  hope  in  the  Bilgewater  Bank. 


30 


Ill 
From  office  boy,  Henry  advanced  to  a  teller, 

And  held  down  that  job  with  great  credit,  a  year; 
But  as  Henry  looked  up — not  down  toward  the 

cellar — 
He  kept  an  eye  peeled  for  the  job  of  cashier. 

IV 

Cashier  he  became,  as  he  fully  expected, 

Before  he  had  turned  twenty-seven  or  eight; 

And,  that  much  accomplished,  he  wisely  reflected, 
'Twas  time  he  acquired  a  suitable  mate. 


J  he  girl  he  picked  out,  as  a  maiden  worth  landing, 
Was  stylishly  pretty,  demure  and  inane. 

And  Henry,  by  now  having  recognized  standing, 
This  Bilgewater  belle  was  not  courted  in  vain. 

VI 

As  time  slipped  along  he  became  Chief  Inspector — 
Or  something  high  up — in  the  Purity  League ; 

Trustee  of  the  church;  of  his  bank  a  director; 
Performing  his  tasks  with  no  sign  of  fatigue. 

VII 

So  far,  he  could  boast  that  his  record  was  flawless — 
All  praise  to  the  road  that  is  narrow  and 

straight ; 
But  strange  are  the  methods  of  crooks  that  are 

lawless, 
And  queer  are  the  whims  and  the  antics  of  fate. 


31 


VIII 

While  off  in  New  York,  on  a  needed  vacation, 
This  circumspect,  moral  and  careful,  good  man, 

Ran  'foul  of  a  damsel  in  Grand  Central  Station, 
Who  called  him  by  name — so  the  narrative  ran. 

IX 

What  happened  to  him  he  could  never  remember; 

He  woke  in  a  place  that  was  called  a  hotel. 
The  room  was  as  bare  and  as  bleak  as  December, 

His  wrist-watch  was  gone  and  his  wallet  as  well. 


He  informed  the  police,  and  then  a  young  fellow 
Who  worked  on  the  Ledger  got  wise  to  the  mess : 

Then  the  Eilgewater  Bugle,  in  style  very  yellow, 
Reprinted  the  story.  The  rest  you  can  guess. 

XI 

Well,  when  Henry  got  home  his  welcome  was 

hearty, 

(As  any  mad  dog's  in  a  populous  street). 
The  bank  recalled  pictures  of  "Peary  and  Party," 
For  the  hands  that  he  clasped  were  colder  than 
sleet. 

xn 

His  character  bore  not  the  shade  of  suspicion 
In  all  of  these  years — not  a  spot  or  a  smirch — 

Still  he  lost  a  good  wife  and  better  position, 
And  they  fired  him  bodily  out  of  the  church. 

32 


XIII 

But  what  is  the  use  to  continue  his  story? 

Suffice  it  to  say  that  his  journey  was  rough. 
We'll  ring  down  the  curtain  on  Henry,  grown 
hoary, 

And  turn  to  the  record  of  Peter  the  Tough. 

PETER 

Young  Peter  quit  school  at  the  age  of  eleven. 

His  refusal  to  go  was  final  and  flat. 
He  scoffed  at  the  orthodox  version  of  heaven, 

He  teased  the  canary  and  tortured  the  cat. 

n 
He  trailed  with  a  gang  of  young  ruffians  unholy, 

And  would  fight  like  a  Turk,  as  quick  as  a  wink. 
He  wasted  his  days  and  his  evenings  were  solely 

Devoted  to  deeds  that  were  blacker  than  ink. 

in 

This  dreadful  young  Tartar,  so  tough  and  pug- 
nacious, 

This  brigand,  by  nature  designed  for  the  chair, 
Had  a  streak  in  him  still,  that  was  somewhat 

sagacious — 
A  natural  cunning  which  one  might  compare, 

IV 
To  a  fox  or  a  lynx — or  maybe  that  tiger 

On  which  the  young  lady  who  went  for  a  ride, 
Returned,  you'll  recall,  to  their  starting  place, 

Niger. 
(The  beast  wore  a  smile — and  the  lady  inside.) 

33 


Well,  Peter  grew  up  both  a  pride  and  a  terror: 
The  pride  of  his  ward — which  he  ruled  like  a 
czar — 

The  bane  of  the  pious,  who  held  him  in  error 
And  vowed  that  the  devil  would  boil  him  in  tar ! 

VI 

He  prospered,  at  that,  though  his  money  was 
tainted — 

Which  fact  never  worried  the  gentleman  much — 
For  he  owned  a  saloon  where  damosels  painted, 

Regaled  Jimmy-Valentine  gentry  and  such. 

VII 

Immune  "higher  up"  for  his  vote-getting  power, 
Transgressing  the  law  gave  him  little  concern. 

His  influence  grew  with  his  pull  by  the  hour, 
Until  Peter,  at  last,  had  money  to  burn. 

VIII 

He  sold  out  his  dive  and  became  a  contractor, 
And  set  out  to  be  the  political  boss: 

His  wad  proved  to  be  the  determining  factor, 
So  boss  he  became,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

IX 

Father  of  graft  and  political  jobbery, 

He  was  publicly  scathed,  denounced  and  reviled; 
The  civic  reformers  charged  him  with  robbery 

And  other  high  crimes — but  old  Peter  just 
smiled. 

34 


Came  a  time  when  Peter,  grown  tired  of  action, 
Began  to  give  thought  to  his  wavering  health. 

He  also  found  out  there  was  small  satisfaction 
In  the  mere  piling  up  of  purposeless  wealth. 

XI 

He  wearied  of  strife  and  of  crooks  and  ward-heelers, 
And  to  find  for  himself  a  place  in  the  sun, 

He  began  to  put  forth  some  tentative  feelers, 
As  thousands  of  Peters  before  him  have  done. 

XII 

He  bought  an  estate  in  the  proper  location; 

Began  to  talk  vaguely  of  "sins"  and  "remorse ;" 
And  feeling  that  golf  was  a  safe  recreation, 

He  practiced  the  game  on  his  own  private  course. 

xni 

Then  one  evening  he  asked  the  parson  to  dinner, 
And  though  the  good  man  was  a  trifle  in  doubt, 

His  business  was  seeking,  not  shunning  the  sinner, 
So  his  reverence  went  to  smoke  Beelzebub  out. 

XIV 

He  succeeded  so  well  in  filling  with  pity, 
The  heretofore  adamant  heart  of  his  host, 

That  Peter  presented  the  links  to  the  city. 
And  wrote  out  a  check  for  the  church  that  almost 


35 


XV 

Lifted  the  mortgage — and  that  great  abnegation 
Proved  quite  that  his  soul  had  been  purged  and 
was  free; 

So  the  deacons,  convinced  of  his  perfect  salvation, 
Took  him  into  the  fold  and  made  him  trustee. 

EPILOGUE 

Now  all  of  this  just  goes  to  prove, 

That  man  may  sin  a-plenty, 
And  keep  it  up  consistently, 

For  ten  years  or  for  twenty; 
And  in  the  end,  he  may  reform, 

Be  honored,  loved  and  trusted. 
But  Virtue,  is  a  toy  balloon — 

One  puncture — and  it's  busted! 


36 


A  Song  of  the  Sae 


YOUNG  FERDINAND  was  a  sailor  bold, 
With  a  girl  in  every  port; 
To  every  one  his  love  he  told, 
To  each  of  them  paid  court. 
But  short  was  his  stay  when  he  had  won 

The  maid  he  came  to  woo, 
For  love  to  him  was  only  fun, 

And  he  boasted  of  it,  too. 
'Twas  the  same  old  game  with  a  change  of  name, 

Till  he  met  with  Belle  Marie, 
And  little  he  thought,  he'd  at  last  been  caught, 
As  his  usual  song  sang  he : 

"I've  shipped  on  the  Lakes  and  sailed  the  brine, 

And  forty-four  times  I've  crossed  the  Line. 

In  Singapore,  I'd  a  first-mate's  bunk; 

And  I've  been  the  captain  of  a  Chinese  junk; 

But,  bust  my  nob  with  a  marlin  spike, 

If  ever  before  I've  seen  the  like 

Of  a  lass  as  neat  and  trim  as  you, 

From  the  coast  of  Maine  to  Kismayu." 


So  when  he  had  won  the  heart  and  hand 

Of  innocent  Belle  Marie, 
Off  marched  the  doughty  Ferdinand, 

To  join  his  ship  at  sea. 
But  he  hadn't  gone  far  ere  Brother  Gus, 

A  man  of  might  and  main, 
Poked  under  his  nose  a  blunderbus 

And  marched  him  back  again. 
At  a  jeweller's  shop  he  bade  Ferd  stop 

And  buy  a  wedding  ring; 
Then  he  saw  them  wed  and  smilingly  said, 

"Brother  Ferdinand,  you  may  sing: 


"I've  shipped  on  the  Lakes  and  sailed  the  brinef 

And  forty-four  times  I've  crossed  the  Line. 

In  Singapore,  I'd  a  first-mate's  bunk; 

And  I've  been  the  captain  of  a  Chinese  junk; 

But,  bust  my  nob  'with  a  marlin  spike, 

If  ever  before  I've  seen  the  like 

Of  a  lass  as  neat  and  trim  as  you, 

From  the  coast  of  Maine  to  Kismayu" 


38 


To  a  Faded  Rose 


o 


FADED,  shrivelled,  scentless  bud, 
Mem'ry  sweet  of  moments  rare, 
Cruelly  crushed  'twixt  musty  leaves 
Of  a  volume  of  Voltaire ! 


Ah,  how  your  withered  form  awakes 
Long  forgotten  dreams  of  yore — 

Resuscitating  from  the  past 
Visions  of  sweet  Eleanor! 

She  seems  to  stand  beside  me  now, 
Charming  in  her  girlish  grace; 

Again  your  crimson  petals  peep 
From  those  folds  of  filmy  lace 

Nestling  at  her  lovely  neck. 

By  the  light  of  starlit  skies 
Read  I,  as  I  held  her  close, 

Love's  sweet  message  in  her  eyes. 

She  gave  you  to  me.    Precious  bud! 

Passionately  then  I  swore 
To  hold  you  as  a  priceless  gem, 

Dear  to  me  as  life — aye  more! 

And  have  I  kept  that  fervid  oath? 

Well — I've  never  let  you  go: 
I've  kept  you — with  like  souvenirs 

Of  Beatrice,  Grace  and  Flo. 


39 


Lines  to  a  Straw  Hat 

DEAR  Hat— the  "dear"  is  not  in  fond  affection, 
The  truth  is  that  I  purchased  you  because 
When  I  set  out  to  make  my  spring  selection 

I  thought  you  were  a  bargain  rare  in  straws — 
I  think  that  you  were  legended  as  "Nifty, 

Imported  Bangkok,  Modish.    Just  reduced. 
Was  Seven  Dollars — Now,  dollar  fifty!" 

By  which  sophistic  phrase  I  was  seduced. 
But  scarcely  had  you  graced  my  dome  cephalic 

When  vagrant  breezes  wafted  you  aloft, 
And  as  you  lit,  some  humorous  smart-aleck 

Kicked  you  where  the  mud  lay  thick  and  soft. 
Half  a  buck  restored  your  pristine  beauty, 

And  then  I  hied  me  to  my  fav'rite  inn, 
Where  sits  a  siren  taking  toll — or  booty — 

For  every  lid  left  in  her  sacred  bin. 
I've  tried  to  dodge  this  nymph  of  hats  and  hashes 

And  sneak  you  by  her,  carelessly,  offhand ; 
But  one  swift  glance  from  'neath  her  silken  lashes, 

Believe  me,  is  sufficient  reprimand ! 
Then  back  I  go,  abashed,  in  full  surrender, 

And  hand  you  to  this  lady  buccaneer, 
To  ransom  you  anon  with  legal  tender 

Or  meet  the  withering  glances  of  the  dear. 
For  thirty  days,  at  luncheon  and  at  dinner, 

I've  paid  a  dime  as  a  tribute  for  your  keep ; 
Thus  far  you've  set  me  back  eight  bones,  you  sinner ! 

Unfaithful  tile,  who  said  that  you  were  cheap? 


40 


"The  place.-"  Any  suburb.    Time?  Any  holiday" 


The  Day  of  Rest 

BILLOWS  of  dust  to  blue  heaven  ascending, 
Effacing  the  landscape  from  view; 
Maliferous  odors  the  nostrils  offending, 
Outsmelling  a  caldron  of  glue. 

Sounds  that  the  devil  himself  hath  invented, 
From  rumbles  like  far  thunder's  roll 

To  hair-raising  shrieks  of  a  being  demented 
Or  the  wail  of  a  tortured  soul. 

The  place?  Any  suburb.    Time?  Any  holiday, 

When  the  wind  isn't  overly  keen. 
The  cause  ?  Just  the  city  folk  out  for  a  jolly  day, 

In  any  old  kind  of  machine. 

One-lunger,  two-lunger,  de-bodied  chassis, 

Motor  bikes,  taxicabs,  trucks, 
Limousines,  runabouts — anything  that  you  please, 

Driven  by  old  and  young  bucks. 

The  butcher,  the  baker,  the  buttonhole  maker, 
Their  uncles  and  cousins  and  aunts, 

The  doctor,  the  lawyer,  the  grim  undertaker — 
P.  S. — and  the  ambulance! 


41 


Epitaph  for  Your  Cook 

HERE  reposes  what  is  mortal  of 
YSABEL  McSWATT, 
As  competent  a  cook  as  ever 
Wrestled  with  a  pot. 
'Twere  useless  quite,  when  in  her  prime, 

A  better  maid  to  seek: 
This  is  the  only  place  she's  stayed  in 
Longer  than  a  week. 


42 


The  Passionate  Frenchman 
to  His  American  Love 


i 


CANNOT  write  at  all  Anglais, 
You  comprehend  not  French ; 
But  this  shall  not  my  passion  slay 
Nor  make  my  love  to  quench. 


Inside  my  heart  is  not  the  room 

For  other  maid's  desire; 
With  fire  of  love  I  am  consume — 

With  passion  I  perspire. 

I  see  you  at  the  table  d'hote, 

I  watch  your  eye  of  blue; 
But  you  decline  of  me  to  note — 

You  study  the  menu. 

You  cannot  read  those  French  entrees- 

I'm  force  to  such  belief — 
Because  each  night  I  hear  you  say, 

"Oh,  bring  me  some  roze  beef!" 

O  roses  lips !  O  night-black  hair 

Of  blushing  maid  petite! 
For  me  if  you  shall  learn  to  care, 

I  teach  you  how  to  eat! 


43 


Little  Jane  Horner 

LITTLE  JANE  HORNER  sat  in  her  corner, 
Pounding  her  writing  machine. 
She'd  a  rose-tinted  face  and  particular  grace 
And  only  an  aunt — in  Racine. 

For  a  year  and  a  half  she'd  been  getting  the  laugh 
From  a  neighboring  yellow-haired  wren, 

Who  called  her  a  freak — well,  her  wages  per  week 
Were  maybe  eight  dollars  or  ten, 

And  she  couldn't  get  gay  on  that  generous  pay, 

Nor  cut  very  much  of  a  swath; 
It  was  twilight  or  gloom  in  her  little  hall-room, 

And  she  had  to  go  out  for  a  bath. 

Of  course,  you  can  guess  that  the  style  of  her  dress 
Would  have  passed  in  the  West  for  some  clothes, 

But  on  upper  Broadway  in  Manhattan,  nay,  nay! 
And  the  same  thing  was  true  of  her  hose. 

Still,  she  grew  rather  fond  of  the  willowy  blonde 

Who  pounded  the  other  machine, 
For  that  lady  was  wise  and  she  opened  the  eyes 

Of  little  Jane  H.  of  Racine. 

And  she  showed  her,  my  dear,  how  on  nothing  a 

year 
One  wore  marvelous  dresses  and  hats, 

44 


And  could  drive  in  the  Park  and  go  out  for  a  lark 
And  pay  rent  in  the  swellest  of  flats. 

But  the  small  one  blushed  red  and  nodded  her  head 
And  went  back  to  her  room  off  the  hall, 

Where  she  waited  in  vain  for  a  chivalrous  swain — 
But  the  gentleman  never  did  call. 

And  the  blonde  merely  laughed  and  jollied  and 
chaffed, 

'Till  the  other  one  got  the  belief 
That  virtue  meant  tears  and  long,  lonely  years, 

While  transgression  insured  against  grief. 

Had  the  lady  been  wood,  she  might  have  stayed 
good 

In  the  gloom  of  her  beanery  cell ; 
But  being  just  flesh,  she  got  caught  in  the  mesh 

Of  desire's  drag-net  which  is  hell. 

Little  Jane  Horner  now  lies  in  some  corner, 
(The  place  isn't  marked  by  a  stone) 

She  set  them  a  pace  but  got  lost  in  the  race 
And  she  died  in  the  finish — alone. 

Little  Jane  Horner  left  no  one  to  mourn  her; 

No,  not  even  the  aunt  in  Racine: 
For  every  one  knew  Jane  was  wicked  clean 
through — 

Still,  she  wasn't  much  over  eighteen ! 


45 


Though  the  parson  asserts  that  she  got  her  deserts 

For  looking  at  virtue  askance, 
Yet,  between  you  and  me,  I  think  you'll  agree, 

That  she  never  had  much  of  a  chance. 

And  if  Gabriel's  blast  does  summon  at  last 

All  sinners  to  stand  in  a  row, 
I'd  rather  be  plain  little  profligate  Jane, 

Than  that  parson  who  judged  her  below. 


The  Coat  of  Content 

THE  King  was  sick.   For  it  happens  to  be 
That  imperial  flesh  is  heir 
To  the  most  plebian  sort  of  an  ill, 
That  merely  calls  for  a  lotion  or  pill ; 
But  here  was  a  case  that  baffled  the  skill 
Of  the  Royal  Leech,  for  fair. 

Deep  was  the  gloom  that  pervaded  the  Court. 

For  they  didn't  know  what  to  do, 
As  every  whiskered  and  wise  M.  D., 
With  his  predecessor  would  disagree — 
Except,  perhaps,  in  the  size  of  his  fee — 

Hence,  the  Ministers  felt  blue. 

Came  a  spectacled  man  in  a  spangled  robe, 
Who  looked  at  the  King  and  said : 

"This  isn't  a  case  for  a  medicine-man, 

We'll  work  it  out  on  a  different  plan ; 

To-night  the  Heavens  I'll  carefully  scan, 
Then  tell  you  what  I  have  read." 

The  following  morn  said  the  Spangled  Bard, 

"The  Planets  this  message  send: 
'If  the  coat  of  a  man  who  is  content, 
Be  placed  for  a  day  on  the  shoulders  bent, 
Of  your  Monarch  most  high  and  excellent, 

His  Majesty's  health  will  mend/  " 


47 


So  the  Couriers  sped  with  feverish  haste. 

A  Contented  Man  to  find, 
And  acquire  his  coat,  and  bring-  it  back — 
If  green  or  red,  whether  purple  or  black, 
Toga  or  gaberdine,  doublet  or  sack, 

Or  jerkin,  leather-lined. 

Four  Messengers  left ;  and  there  straggled  back 

Three  of  them  haggard  and  spent, 
Who  told  how  they'd  traveled  from  camp  to  court, 
From  monastery  to  pleasure  resort, 
Yet  most  regretfully  had  to  report 

They  had  found  no  man  content. 

Now  things  looked  bad ;  but  a  confident  band 

Would  never  a  defeat  confess : 
That  three  of  the  Messengers  failed,  was  true, 
But  the  fourth  Envoy  was  overdue, 
Which  fact,  in  the  judgment  of  just  these  few, 

Spelled  certainly  some  success. 

Then  the  fourth  man  came,  and  at  sight  of  him 

The  wildest  of  joy  prevailed. 
A  man  content  was  discovered,  said  he, 
So  the  populace  danced  and  shouted  in  glee — 
Yea,  every  man  hugged  his  neighbor — save  three — 

The  Messengers  who  had  failed. 

"The  jacket!  He's  got  it!  Long  live  the  King!" 

Voiced  many  a  clarion  throat. 
But  the  Messenger  sadly  shook  his  head — 
"I  have  found  the  Contented  Man,"  he  said, 
"But  he  hadn't  a  sou — not  a  single  red, 

And  he  couldn't  afford  a  coat !" 

48 


Life's  Poker  Game 


T 


HE  world  is  only  a  deck  of  cards, 

And  Life  is  a  game  of  poker, 
With  fulls  and  flushes  and  single  pairs, 
Fours  of  a  kind  and  the  joker. 


Aces  are  Captains  of  Industry 

Who  have  systematized  the  Street: 

A  combination  of  three  or  four 
Is  a  difficult  hand  to  beat. 

And  Kings  are  merely  the  Gilded  Youths, 
Who  carelessly  blow  in  their  stacks: 

They're  Kings  so  long  as  the  bank-roll  lasts 
But  after  it's  gone  they  are  Jacks. 

Queens  are  the  ladies  the  Kings  regale 
With  wine  that  is  sparkling  and  old : 

Many  a  time  has  a  single  Queen 
Cost  a  confident  fool  his  gold. 

The  Deuce  is  the  chap  who  trails  along 
With  the  Kings  and  Queens — a  fly  one — 

Never  was  known  to  decline  a  glass — 
And  he  never  was  known  to  buy  one. 

And  Treys  to  Tens  are  the  Middle  Class 
Who  once  in  a  while  get  a  bone: 

When  united  they're  sometimes  a  factor, 
But  they  count  for  little  alone. 

49 


Three  of  a  kind  to  a  little  Straight, 

Are  the  Hopes  upon  which  we  build: 

We  back  them  to  find  in  the  show-down, 
That  the  other  fellow  has  filled. 

And  Love  compares  with  a  Bobtailed  Flush, 
And  the  Draw  is  Marriage,  we'll  say: 

For  whether  you  help  your  hand  or  not, 
You've  still  got  to  ante  away. 

Two  Pairs  correspond  to  Temptation: 
They  lead  you  to  raise  or  to  call. 

It's  a  white  chip  here  and  blue  one  there, 
'Till  you've  wasted  your  stack — that's  all. 

Dishonesty — that  is  the  Joker. 

He  lurks  where  you  never  suspect, 
Forever  upsetting  your  judgment, 

Until  your  resources  are  wrecked. 

And  Fours  surely  typify  Friendship — •• 

Dealt  a  loser  once  in  a  while: 
But  most  of  the  time  drawn  by  the  man 

Who  has  stacked  up  the  tallest  pile. 

A  Royal  Flush  represents  Success — 

The  rarest  hand  ©f  the  lot: 
Full  many  a  man  has  achieved  it — 

And  then  won  a  very  small  pot! 


50 


She  Wasn't  Over  Twenty,  But  she 
Knew  Her  Little  Book 

HE  met  her  in  the  Springtime,  and  she  made 
an  instant  hit; 
He  thought  she  was  a  sprite  from  fairyland. 
To  get  an  introduction — well,  he  simply  threw  a  fit, 
And  then  he  waded  in  and  won  her  hand. 

She  wasn't  over  twenty,  but  she  knew  her  little 

book, 

And  her  manner  was  so  innocently  frank, 
That  when  she  wanted  something,  she'd  assume  a 

certain  look, 
And,  really,  he'd  have  gone  and  robbed  a  bank. 

She  was  such  a  tiny  creature,  so  child-like  and 

demure, 

With  the  cutest  little  dimples  when  she'd  smile; 
But  her  schemes  for  getting  coin  made  the  Standard 

Oil  look  poor, 
And  had  Ford  and  Morgan  beaten  by  a  mile ! 

And  when  it  came  to  spending,  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say, 

That  his  doll-like,  little  wonder  of  a  wife, 
Could  break  the  U.  S.  Treasury  and  also  get  away 

With  the  surplus  of  the  Equitable  Life. 


51 


When  she  looked  up  at  him  coyly,  slipped  her  arm 

about  his  neck, 

And  lisped  some  baby  talk  she  had  him  won ; 
Then  he'd  take  his  fountain-pen  in  hand  and  write 

her  out  a  check, 
Though  he  felt  at  heart  that  he  was  being  done. 

No  man  could  call  him  easy,  and  his  will  was  pretty 

strong, 

He  was  wise  enough  to  know  when  being  strung; 
But  this  dainty  piece  of  bric-a-brac  just  had  him 

right  along, 
And  when  he  got  his  senses — he  was  stung! 

He  declared  she  was  a  corker — she  was  certainly 

all  that; 

For  rapid  work  she  never  had  a  peer. 
She  wed  him,  broke  him,  fled  him  and  divorced  him 

In  North  Platte, 
And  picked  another  live  one  in  a  year. 

She  left  him  her  unsettled  bills,  which  he  was  made 

to  pay; 

She  left  him  feeling  cheap  and  very  blue ; 
But  he's  bearing  up  much  better  since  he  read,  the 

other  day, 
That  another  boob  has  fallen  for  her,  too. 


52 


The  Song  of  the  Skirt 

FROM  eight  o'clock  in  the  morn 
Till  many  a  night  past  ten, 
The  bookkeeper  sits  in  his  iron  cage, 
Driving  his  pencil  and  pen. 
His  clothes  are  ancient  and  frayed, 

He  wears  a  buttonless  shirt, 
And  his  collars  cut  like  a  razor's  edge, 
While  he  sings  the  song  of  the  skirt: 

It's  work,  work,  work, 

From  the  moment  I  hit  the  shop! 
And  work,  work,  work, 

Like  the  dull,  perspiring  wop! 
And  when  hunger  drives  me  home — 

Why,  a  dog  would  rebel  at  the  hash! 
For  my  better  half  is  an  ornament, 

But  I  must  hustle  for  cash! 


It's  work,  work,  work, 

From  now  till  the  crack  of  doom! 
She'll  work,  work — me — 

But  never  the  good  old  broom ! 
She  doesn't  know  how  to  cook, 

And  she  doesn't  know  how  to  mend, 
But  I  can  work  like  the  barbarous  Turk, 

So  she'll  have  money  to  spend. 


53 


But  wherefore  do  I  complain? 

Am  I  in  my  grief  alone 
Look  at  the  boss  in  his  easy  chair, 

And  he  has  cares  of  his  own. 
He  has  wrinkles  on  his  brow, 

And  those  eyes  that  were  alert 
Are  heavy  today,  and  his  hair  is  gray, 

While  he  sings  the  song  of  the  skirt 

It's  work,  work,  work, 

And  hustle  and  scheme  and  strive! 
And  work,  work,  work, 

To  keep  my  credit  alive! 
For  I  must  put  up  a  front, 

For  the  sake  of  daughter  and  wife ; 
And  business  is  dull,  and  my  old  skull 

Refuses  to  come  to  life. 

It's  bills,  bills,  bills, 

From  tradesmen  of  every  rank! 
And  bills,  bills,  bills, 

While  I'm  overdrawn  at  the  bank! 
It's  pay,  pay,  pay! 

Oh,  the  bills  come  in  by  the  ream ! 
Till  over  the  bills  I  fall  asleep 

And  write  out  checks  in  a  dream! 


54 


"Long  Live  the  Kaiser!" 

PUBLISHER'S  NOTE:  The  verses  under  the  above  caption 
which  appear  on  page  56,  were  written  by  Mr.  George  Douglas, 
and  were  included  in  this  book  by  a  curious  error  not  discovered 
until  after  publication.  A  number  of  poems  all  bearing  the  same 
title  were  written  by  The  American  Press  Humorists  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  Mr.  Switzer,  and  published  in  a  small  volume.  In  se- 
lecting some  additions  for  this  (the  second}  edition  of  SATIRE 
&  SONG,  the  lines  of  Mr.  Douglas  were  reprinted  instead  of 
those  of  Mr.  Switzer  which  are  as  follows: 

LONG  live  the  Kaiser !    Aye,  long  be  his  life 
Beyond  the  span  allotted  mortal  men. 
When  o'er  the  fest'ring,  blood-drenched  fields  of 

strife 

The  healing  sun  of  Peace  shall  shine  again, 
Long  may  he  live,  and,  as  the  years  take  flight, 
Live  on  with  mem'ry  strong,  but  body  frail; 
Haunted  in  the  still  watches  of  the  night 

Ever  by  some  murdered  infant's  ghostly  wail. 
Long  live  the  Kaiser !    Let  this  be  his  fate : 

To  live  when  those  he  cherished  most  have  died, 
Their  funeral  dirge  his  own  sweet  Hymn  of  Hate, 
And,  craving  death,  to  have  his  prayer  denied. 
So  let  him  live  for  weary,  endless  years 
Amid  pale  sepulchres  washed  white  with  tears. 


The  Man  of  the  Hour 


i 


RECALL  you,  Smith,  before  I  knew  my  letters, 

And  later  when  we  both  attended  school. 
While  in  many  ways  I  knew  you  had  your 

betters, 
You  were  absolutely  peerless  as  a  fool. 

I  remember  how  you  slaughtered  English  grammar, 
How  you  tackled  simple  fractions  all  in  vain; 

How  geography  the  teacher  failed  to  hammer 
Into  what  was  called  by  courtesy,  your  brain. 

I  remember  that  some  twenty-one  years  later, 
When  you  had  attained  at  least  a  man's  physique, 

You  were  toiling  for  your  honorable  pater, 
And  were  overpaid  at  fifteen  bucks  a  week. 

I  remember  that  at  every  social  function 
You  were  always  just  a  sort  of  standing  joke; 

The  women  kidded  you  without  compunction, 
Or  they  let  you  sit  alone  outside  and  smoke. 

So  I  marveled  at  the  wonderful  ovation 

You  received  upon  your  entrance  here  tonight, 

And  I  wondered  by  what  magic  transformation 
Could  contempt  be  changed  to  feminine  delight. 

To  the  riddle,  though,  I  found  a  ready  answer, 
Ere  the  orchestra  had  struck  a  dozen  bars: 

As  a  "trotter"  I  could  see  you  were  some  dancer! 
So  I'm  glad  7  brought  along  a  few  cigars. 

55 


Long  Live  the  Kaiser! 

(May  he  live  long  enough  to  read  this — he  may  not  live  after.) 

LONG  live  the  Kaiser !    May  he  live 
Forever  and  forever, 
And  may  the  peace  that  Death  can  give 
Be  Wilhelm's  blessing  never. 

Long  live  the  Kaiser — not  his  yoke — 

Long  live,  but  not  long  reign ; 
We  would  not  doom  his  German  folk 

To  bear  eternal  pain. 

Long  live  the  Kaiser,  may  his  years, 

If  counted  they  must  be, 
Be  counted  by  the  countless  tears 

Wrought  by  his  infamy. 

Long  live  the  Kaiser !    May  he  dwell 

Where  he  can  daily  learn 
Some  detail  of  the  earthly  hell 

That  Wilhelm  caused  to  burn. 

Long  live  the  Kaiser,  live  to  view 

The  evil  he  has  done. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  another  Sue 

May  write  "The  Wandering  Hun." 

Long  live  the  Kaiser,  yet,  and  yet, 

Though  little  good  men  bear  him, 
Twere  better  could  the  world  forget — 

It  certainly  can  spare  him. 

56 


"The  Troubadour  of  olden  days' 


Poetic  justice  it  might  be 

To  save  him  from  the  Reaper — 
But  who  so  steeped  in  villainy 

Deserves  to  be  his  keeper  ? 


The  Difference 

THE  Troubadour  of  olden  days 
Would  pluck  his  classic,  tuneful  lute 
Beneath  the  casement  of  some  beaut, 
And  warble  fervid  roundelays. 

The  Poet  now  has  changed  his  tools: 
With  fountain  pen  he  woos  the  beaut — 
And  gets  a  breach-of-promise  suit. 

Those  Troubadours  were  not  such  fools. 


57 


Why  Cleo  Was  Late 

HONORA  MULCAHY,  of  Riverside  Drive, 
Whose  stage-name  was  Cleo  Du  Vail, 
Was  due  at  rehearsal  at  ten  twenty-five, 
But  to  her  time  meant  nothing  at  all. 

She  worked  in  the  chorus,  position  in  front, 

And  she  hadn't  a  line  in  the  play; 
To  merely  look  stunning  and  smart  was  her  stunt, 

And  thirty  per  week  was  her  pay. 

The  manager  strode  up  and  down  and  he  swore 
'Till  the  air  in  the  play-house  got  blue ; 

He  declared  he'd  put  up  with  her  nonsense  no 

more — 
That  this  was  her  end — he  was  through! 

She  turned  up  at  last,  and  at  absolute  ease, 

Walked  on  at  a  leisurely  gait, 
Met  the  manager's  gaze,  and,  as  cool  as  you  please, 

Said  sweetly,  "I  guess  I  am  late." 

"You  guess!"  roared  the  manager,  purple  with  rage, 
In  a  voice  one  could  hear  for  a  block ; 

"I  said  twenty-five  minutes  past  ten — on  the  stage! 
Will  you  please  take  a  slant  at  the  clock  ? 


58 


"What  happened  this  morning?"  the  manager 

mocked, 

"I  suppose  it's  the  usual  stall — 
Your  alarm-clock  was  stopped  ?    The  subway  was 

blocked  ? — 
You  neglected  to  put  down  a  call? — " 

Said  the  lady,  adjusting  her  pearls,  "I  am  late," 
Here  she  flecked  a  few  threads  from  her  coat, 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Grimes,  for  the  reasons  you  state, 
So  there  ain't  no  use  losing  your  goat. 

"This  morning,  I  simply  just  couldn't  decide 

As  to  using  my  clover-leaf  Pearce, 
Or  in  which  of  my  Rolls  limousines  I  would  ride — 

And  the  traffic  was  certainly  fierce !" 


Owed  to  May 


FAIR  girl — your  name  suggesting  gentle 
spring— 
And  you  so  young  and  rosy-lipped, 
I  took  you  for  the  guileless  little  thing 

You  looked,  and  then  rushed  in  and — slipped! 

You  led  me  on ;  I  had  my  own  sweet  way — 

I  never  heard  you  once  protest, 
By  either  word  or  look  or  gesture — nay, 

You  always  said  that  I  knew  best. 

And  when  I'd  parted  with  my  lone,  last  red, 
You  gently  broke  the  witching  spell — 

I  do  not  now  recall  just  what  you  said — 
I  only  know  I  felt  like — well, 

It  matters  not.    I  looked  for  trouble,  and 

I'm  not  the  first  fond,  foolish  ass 
That  has  been  neatly  and  completely  canned, 

And  so  we'll  simply  let  it  pass. 

But,  say,  think  not  that  I'm  a  madman  quite, 
Whose  heart  with  bitterness  is  wrung, 

To  shamelessly  admit  in  black  and  white 
The  prideless  fact  that  I've  been  stung. 


60 


"Lay  not  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul.0 
The  plain,  unvarnished  truth  is  this: 

My  aching  void  some  coffee  and  a  roll 
Would  fill  much  better  than  your  kiss! 

Ah,  no !  I  mean  to  sell  this  story  of  my  woe, 

For  ten,  a  five-spot  or  a  two, 
And  so  get  back  a  portion  of  the  dough 

I  foolishly  blew  in  on  you. 


61 


A  Merely  Mexican  Madrigal 

OH,  the  fair  Donna  Chloe, 
From  her  pa-la-ci-o, 
Called  down  to  Don  Pedro,  who  wooed  her 

below: 

"Sing  a  sweet  serenade 
Of  the  vows  you  have  made, 

Or  ne'er  will  you  win  my  affection,  Pedro." 

So  all  the  night  long 
Pedro  warbled  a  song 

That  told  of  his  love  and  his  passion  so  strong — 
Singing  out  in  the  rain, 
In  an  unsheltered  plain, 

Till  all  of  his  vocal  machinery  went  wrong. 

And  she  listened  in  bliss 
To  something  like  this: 

"O  lady  so  fairo, 
Here,  in  the  chill  airot 

I  sing!  Do  give  ear,  I  implore  you! 
Though  due  at  the  fronto, 
I'm  pulling  this  stunt of 

As  evidence  that  I  adore  you! 
O  listen,  I  prayo, 
Please  turn  not  awayo, 

I'd  sing  though  I  froze  to  the  bone! 
If  my  voice  is  falsetto, 
fTis  'cause  I  am  <weto, 

So  tell  me  you  love  me,  my  own/" 

62 


All  the  next  evening,  too 
Though  the  bitter  wind  blew, 

Still  hoarsely  he  caroled  his  roundelay  through; 
'Till  the  lady  she  thought 
That  the  cold  he  had  caught 

Was  proof  that  his  love  was  enduring  and  true. 

So  she  pitied  his  plight, 
For  she  loved  him,  all  right; 

But  never  again  came  the  amorous  knight. 
For,  sad  to  relate, 
From  the  neighboring  State 

His  brother  had  sniped  him  and  put  out  his  light. 


63 


Hymn  of  the  Down  and  Outs 

THIS  struggle  to  be  "someone"  is  a  dis- 
appointing game 

No  matter  what  the  stakes  for  which  you  play. 
You  may  hit  it  right  and  find  yourself  a  personage 

of  fame 

And  every  blooming  thing  will  come  your  way. 
A  thousand  unctious  seekers  for  your  favor  make 

a  bid, 

Their  fulsome  adulation  pleasing  much. 
They  tell  you  without  blushing  you're  the 

transcendental  kid, 

But  the  minute  you  believe  it  you're  in  Dutch. 
For  the  lightning  of  adversity  from  skies  cerulean 

blue 
Hits  you  suddenly  and  knocks  you  from  your 

throne; 
And  you  crawl  from  out  the  wreckage  just  to  find 

when  you  come  to, 
That  you're  sitting  on  the  scrap-heap — all  alone ! 

In  the  airplane  of  Luck,  if  you've  got  enough  pluck, 

You  may  soar  pretty  high  and  fly  long. 
But  you  keep  making  flights  morn,  evening  and 
nights, 

'Till  at  last  the  old  engine  goes  wrong. 
Then  the  record  you  broke  going  up  is  a  joke, 

Compared  to  your  speed  coming  down; 
And  you  land  on  your  face  in  the  sort  of  a  place 

Where  there  isn't  a  drink  in  town. 

64 


Today  you're  in  the  glory  and  the  fullness  of 

success; 

In  the  midst  of  popularity  and  bliss, 
And  the  school  board  calls  upon  you  to  deliver  an 

address 

Or  to  dedicate  some  public  edifice. 
You're  chosen  as  the  chairman  of  committees  and 

you  ride 

Attired  in  the  marshal's  gilded  togs; 
The  people  look  upon  you  with  the  greatest  civic 

pride 

And  name  their  babies  for  you — and  their  dogs. 
Tomorrow  old  misfortune  comes  and  trips  you 

from  behind, 

And  the  last  thing  you  remember  is  the  bump: 
When  you  come  out  from  your  comatose  condition, 

then  you  find, 

That  they've  chucked  you  with  the  rubbish  on 
the  dump. 

You  may  crawl,  you  may  leap  to  the  top  of  the  heap, 

You  may  get  there  through  hustle  or  graft; 
They  don't  care  to  know,  once  you've  cornered  the 
dough, 

If  you  got  it  by  virtue  or  craft. 
But  just  take  a  drop  from  your  perch  at  the  top, 

And  you'll  find  the  mob  greasing  the  chute; 
And  the  music  you  hear  as  you  land  on  your  ear, 

Is  the  song  of  the  hob-nailed  boot. 

When  you're  prosperous,  the  things  you  say  will 

make  an  instant  hit, 
Your  saddest  wheeze  is  sure  to  get  a  laugh ; 

65 


You  obtain  the  reputation  of  a  genius  and  a  wit 

And  all  the  ladies  want  your  autograph. 
The  monthlies  run  your  photo  in  a  victor's  wreath 

of  bays, 

And  refer  to  you  as  "Our  fav'rite  son"; 
Nor  could  six  chorus  ladies  eat  in  twenty-seven 

days, 

The  dinners  that  are  tendered  you  in  one. 
Then  you  hit  the  old  toboggan  and  you  tumble 

down  the  route, 

That  wiser  ones  than  you  have  gone  before, 
And  the  bunch  that  once  laughed  with  you  now 

laugh  at  you,  for  you're  out — 
Just  a  hobo  in  the  bread-line — nothing  more. 

When  you're  able  to  spend  without  limit  or  end, 

Then  good-fellowship  blossoms  apace. 
When  you  stop  at  a  bar  you  are  haled  from  afar 

And  you  can't  buy  a  thing  in  the  place. 
When  your  bundle  is  gone  and  your  furs  are  in  pawn, 

And  the  streets  wear  a  coating  of  ice, 
Then  it's  twenty  to  three  that  the  only  thing  free 

Ever  handed  to  you,  is — advice. 


66 


A  Lay  of  the  Races 

THERE  was  a  jay  who  had  a  way 
Of  making-  people  sore. 
He  didn't  seem  to  know  or  care: 
He  really  had  no  savoire  faire — 
He  was  a  dreadful  bore. 

And  one  fine  day  he  took  his  way — • 

That  is,  he  took  a  hack — 
In  fact,  to  be  exact  and  nice, 
The  hack  took  him  (we'll  be  precise) 

It  took  him  to  the  track. 

This  hopeless  fool  could  tell  a  mule 

From  any  thoroughbred; 
But  right  there  did  his  horse  sense  end; 
"Howe'er,"  mused  he,  "I'll  meet  some  friend, 

Who'll  pull  me  out  ahead." 

Two  friends  he  met  about  to  bet 

Upon  a  two-year-old. 
They  had  a  tip — not  from  the  boss — • 
But  absolutely  from  the  horse — 

In  truth,  the  race  was  sold. 


67 


And  to  these  two  he  stuck  like  glue 

And  wouldn't  break  away. 
He  clung  to  them  like  grimmest  death 
And  pestered  them  with  every  breath 

For  something  good  to  play. 

And  he  did  stick  'till  they  grew  sick 

And  vowed  to  throw  him  down : 
To  steer  the  boresome  mutton-head 
Against  a  long-shot  good  and  dead, 
And  make  him  walk  to  town. 

The  artful  pair  did  then  prepare 

A  deep-laid  scheme  to  plot; 
They  whispered  low,  "Old  man,  you  run 
And  back  that  horse  that's  12  to  1 

For  every  cent  you've  got." 

He  did  not  wait  nor  hesitate, 

But  did  as  he  was  told, 
And  right  straight  down  the  line  he  went 
And  backed  "the  dog"  for  every  cent 

Of  just  one  hundred  cold. 

The  other  two  who  wisely  knew 

Just  what  results  would  be, 
Then  sneaked  away  to  make  their  bet, 
Took  all  the  money  they  could  get — 

A  "cinch"  at  5  to  3. 


Alack !  Alas !  it  came  to  pass, 

That  when  the  race  was  run, 
The  cinch  that  couldn't  lose  at  all 
Did  not  so  much  as  get  a  call — 

The  12  to  1  shot  won! 

That  weary  night  beneath  the  light 

Of  twinkling  stars  and  late, 
While  two  wise  souls  did  homeward  stride, 
A  fool  enjoyed  a  taxi  ride: 

And  that — why  that  is  Fate! 


69 


The  Champion  Fool 

OH,  the  champion  fool  of  qualified  boobs — 
And  many  such  there  be — 
Both  dullards,  drivellers,  dolts  and  rubes, 
(And  those  like  you  and  me) 
Is  the  fellow  who  fails  and  doesn't  know  why; 

Who  sits  on  the  mourner's  shelf, 
Invoking  Fate  with  a  whimpering  cry 
Of  pity  for  himself. 

Oh,  he  doesn't  make  good  and  he  never  could 

If  he  lived  for  a  thousand  years, 
For  he  hasn't  the  heart  to  play  his  part 

In  this  old  vale  of  tears. 

Oh,  he  somehow  never  achieves  success 

In  what  he  strives  to  do, 
But  the  things  are  done  and  he  won't  confess 

That  he  could  not  come  through. 
So  he  lays  the  blame  where  it  doesn't  belong 

And  denies  that  he  was  frail — 
As  frail  and  weak  as  the  others  were  strong 

Who  knew  not  how  to  fail. 

Oh,  we  don't  cash  in  and  we  never  can  win 

'Till  we're  big  enough  to  admit, 
With  the  best  of  grace  that  there's  many  a  place 

Where  some  of  us  don't  fit ! 


70 


The  Turning  of  the  Worm 

HENRIETTA,  you  are  still  the  pretty  charmer 
That  you  were  when  first  we  met  that  sum- 
mer's day; 

And  beyond  a  doubt  you  think  I'm  still  a  farmer — 
Just  an  awkward,  simple,  silly  sort  of  jay. 

I  have  followed  you  from  mountainside  to  ocean, 
And  escorted  you  to  concert,  dance  and  show; 

I  have  tried  to  prove  my  absolute  devotion 
By  every  trick  of  gallantry  I  know. 

Though  by  nature  I  was  built  more  like  a  freighter 
Than  the  swift  and  trim  and  graceful  submarine, 

To  your  whims  I've  tried  consistently  to  cater — 
And  I'm  forty-five  while  you — look  seventeen. 

I  took  lessons  in  the  maxixe  and  fandango, 
The  bolero  and  the  ragtime  minuet  ; 

While  the  new  steps  that  I  mastered  in  the  tango 
Were  at  least  an  even  thousand,  on  a  bet ! 

Henrietta,  though  my  heart  with  sorrow's  aching, 
Here  is  where  the  road  we've  traveled  separates: 

For  I'd  rather  chance  my  heart  than  risk  the 

breaking 
Of  my  neck  for  you,  upon  a  pair  of  skates ! 


71 


Song  of  the  Adventurer  Bold 

GO  HANG,  I  say,  with  your  city  gay, 
And  its  empty  turbulence! 
Oh,  my  delight  is  the  snow-capped  height, 
Or  the  jungle  dank  and  dense. 
I'd  rather  sleep  in  the  forest  deep 

Or  out  on  the  boundless  plain, 
Where  the  doleful  note  of  a  lone  coyote 

To  me  is  a  sweet  refrain. 
Or  give  me  a  trip  on  some  vagrant  ship 

Adrift  on  an  unknown  sea, 
Or  through  some  land  where  the  desert  sand 
Is  hotter  than  hell  can  be ! 

Adventurer  bold  of  stoical  mold, 

Of  naught  am  I  afraid. 
I'm  built  of  the  rough  and  sterner  stuff 

Of  which  good  men  are  made. 
I'm  out  of  the  rock-ribbed,  sturdy  stock 

That  begot  those  pioneers, 
Who  made  their  beds  with  the  savage  Reds 

And  settled  your  wide  frontiers. 
And  if,  forsooth,  you  question  the  truth 

Of  the  stirring  tales  I  tell, 
Then  I  recommend  that  you,  my  friend, 

May  properly  go  to — well, 
You  know  what  you  may  do — may  do — ' 
You  know  what  you  may  do ! 


72 


When— 

WHEN  autumn's  gold  and  umber, 
Or  the  emerald  of  spring, 
Lull  your  senses  into  slumber, 

When  your  heart  should  leap  and  sing, 
When  Phoebus,  low  descending, 

Tints  the  snow-capped  peaks  with  rose, 
And  you  miss  the  color-blending, 

And  only  see  the  snows, 
When  you  find  no  recreation 

Beside  the  purling  brooks, 
No  whit  of  inspiration 

'Twixt  the  covers  of  your  books, 
Where  you  look  with  cold  suspicion 

Into  frankly  honest  eyes, 
When  foolish  superstition 

Sane  reasoning  defies, 
When  healthy  moderation 

Seems  beyond  your  weakened  will, 
When  in  scandal  or  sensation 

You  alone  can  find  a  thrill, 
When  your  appetite  is  jaded, 

When  you  lie  awake  in  bed 
Till  the  pallid  stars  have  faded 

And  the  east  is  tinged  with  red, 
When  the  things  you  buy  for  money 

No  longer  yield  a  joy, 
When  you  shun  the  places  sunny 

For  the  shadows  that  decoy, 
When  of  pleasures  vain  and  idle 

You  have  run  the  gamut  through, 

73 


Till  something  suicidal 

Holds  the  one  appeal  that's  new, 
When  you  feel  that  life's  a  gamble, 

That  the  stakes  are  tawdry,  cheap, 
When  your  mind's  been  on  the  ramble 

While  your  hands  have  been  asleep, 
Then — perhaps,  in  emulation 

Of  the  hookah-smoking  Turk, 
Your  life's  been  one  vacation : 

If  it  has — your  cure  is  WORK! 


74 


THE     BROADWAY 
MOTHER    GOOSE 


*A  revised  selection  from  Mrs.  Goose — Her  Book,  under  which  title 
these  verses  were  previously  published. 


The  Crooked  Man 

'  INHERE  was  a  crooked  man  and  he  had  a  crooked 
nose. 

He  went  to  a  hotel  one  day,  and  what  do  you  sup- 
pose? 

Before  the  man  had  registered,  he  asked  the  clerk 
the  rate: 

"Regular  price  is  five,"  said  he;  "for  you  we'll  make 
it  eight." 

And  then  this  crooked  man,  in  a  very  crooked 
scrawl, 

This  name  wrote  on  the  register:  "Patrick  J.  Mc- 
Fall." 

"Good  gracious!"  gasped  the  clerk,  "a  grave  mis- 
take I  own: 

The  rate  is  five'-  for  you  it's  four — I  thought  your 
name  was  Cohn." 


76 


Old  Mother  Hubbard 


Mother  Hubbard  went  to  the  cupboard, 
For  a  nightcap  of  courage-restorer; 
But  when  she  got  there,  the  cupboard  was  bare- 
Father  Hubbard  had  been  there  before  her, 


A  Man  in  Our  Church 

/TAHERE  was  a  man  in  our  church,  as  deaf  as  he 
•*•  was  wise, 

Who  jumped  into  a  briar  bush  and  scratched  out 

both  his  eyes. 
As  he  could  neither  hear  nor  see,  he  lost  his  job  as 

lector, 
But  seven  corporations  have  elected  him  director. 


77 


Here  Comes  a  Poor  Woman 

TTERE  comes  a  poor  woman  from  Babyland, 
A  *•  With  five  small  children  on  her  hand: 
If  she  hadn't  been  poor,  it's  twenty  to  one, 
Instead  of  five  children  she  would  have  had  none. 


Johnny  Now  Has  a  New  Master 

OLEEP,  saw,  sleep,  saw,  Johnny  now  has  a  new 
^  master. 

He'd  be  earning  more  pay, 

Than  three.dollars  per  day, 
But  the  Union  won't  let  him  work  faster. 


80 


Hey  Diddle,  Diddle 

I-JEY  diddle,  diddle,  Maria  can  fiddle, 

Recite,  play  piano  and  dance: 
But  her  husband,  Peleg,  must  resort  to  a  peg, 
,  To  connect  his  suspenders  and  pants. 


Simple  Simon 


CIMPLE  SIMON,  met  a  pieman, 
*3       Going  to  the  fair. 

Of  the  pieman,  Simple  Simon, 

Purchased  an  eclair. 
From  a  waiter,  bought  he  later, 

Shrimp-pink  lemonade; 
Next,  a  nickel's  worth  of  pickles, 

Simple  Sim.  essayed. 
Now,  if  Simon  meets  a  pieman, 

He'll  make  no  mistake: 
For  he's  flitting  where  they're  splitting 

Only  Angel  Cake, 


81 


Here  Comes  a  Poor  Woman 

TTERE  comes  a  poor  woman  from  Babyland, 
•*•*•  With  five  small  children  on  her  hand : 
If  she  hadn't  been  poor,  it's  twenty  to  one, 
Instead  of  five  children  she  would  have  had  none. 


Johnny  Now  Has  a  New  Master 

CLEEP,  saw,  sleep,  saw,  Johnny  now  has  a  new 
^  master. 

He'd  be  earning  more  pay, 

Than  three.dollars  per  day, 
But  the  Union  won't  let  him  work  faster. 


80 


Hey  Diddle,  Diddle 

UEY  diddle,  diddle,  Maria  can  fiddle, 

Recite,  play  piano  and  dance: 
But  her  husband,  Peleg,  must  resort  to  a  peg, 
,  To  connect  his  suspenders  and  pants. 


Simple  Simon 


OIMPLE  SIMON,  met  a  pieman, 
^       Going  to  the  fair. 

Of  the  pieman,  Simple  Simon, 

Purchased  an  eclair. 
From  a  waiter,  bought  he  later, 

Shrimp-pink  lemonade; 
Next,  a  nickel's  worth  of  pickles, 

Simple  Sim.  essayed. 
Now,  if  Simon  meets  a  pieman, 

He'll  make  no  mistake: 
For  he's  flitting  where  they're  splitting 

Only  Angel  Cake, 


81 


The  Fat  Man  of  Bombay 

HpHERE  was  a  fat  man  of  Bombay, 
A  Who  was  smoking  one  summer's  day. 

He  was  rich,  mighty  and  great, 

And  just  travelling  in  state, 
When  some  wretch  took  his  hookah  away. 


When  Jackie  Was  a  Little  Boy 

1X7HEN  Jackie  was  a  little  boy, 

He  had  but  little  wit. 
But  Percy  was  the  teacher's  pride 
And  always  made  a  hit. 

Now  Jack,  the  dullard,  owns  a  store, 

Is  opulent  and  sleek: 
And  Percy  is  floor-walker  there, 

And  draws  fifteen  per  week. 


82 


Tom,  Tom,  the  Piper's  Son 

'  I  VOM,  Tom,  the  piper's  son, 

-*•     Learned  to  play  when  he  was  young. 

Played  with  skill  at  his  sixth  year, 
Folks  predicted  great  career. 

Tommy  was  to  Berlin  sent; 
To  Paris  and  Vienna  went. 
Studied  methods  old  and  new, 
Came  back  home  at  twenty-two. 

Tommy,  now,  is  called  "Perfess." 
Still  the  people  missed  their  guess. 
Only  place  he  made  his  mark 
Was  at  breezy  Luna  Park. 

Dressed  in  bloomers,  roomy,  red, 
Jaunty  fez  upon  his  head, 
Up  above  the  barker's  stand, 
Piping  in  the  Turkish  Band. 


83 


Clap  Hands,  Clap  Hands 


hands,  clap  hands,  'till  papa  comes  home, 
For  papa  has  money  and  mamma  has  none. 
But  mother  in  season  her  harvest  will  reap: 
She'll  go  through  his  trousers  when  father's  asleep. 


See  Saw 

C  EE  SAW,  sacra  down,  which  is  the  way  through 

Boston  town? 

Nobody  knows  and  nobody  cares, 
The  streets  are  all  circles  —  they  haven't  got 

squares. 

There  are  signs  on  the  corners,  police  on  their  beats, 
But  even  the  shofers  get  lost  in  the  streets, 


Humpty  Dumpty 

LJUMPTY  DUMPTY  went  to  the  wall; 
Humpty  dumped  his  creditors,  all. 
He  gave  them  the  laugh  and  made  them  consent, 
To  settle  in  full  for  eleven  per  cent. 

84 


Mrs.  Sol.  Grundy 


.  SOL.  GRUNDY,  hired  on  Monday, 
Mary  Ann  Johnson  as  cook. 
Mary  quit  Tuesday,  therefore  on  Wednesday, 

Maggie  McGinnis,  she  took. 
Thursday,  had  Nora;  Friday,  came  Flora; 

'Till  Saturday  noon,  stayed  Estelle: 
Mrs.  Sol  Grundy  packed  up  on  Sunday 
And  moved  to  a  family  hotel. 


The  Little  Man  With  a  Gun 


was  a  little  man  and  he  had  a  little  gun, 
And  his  bullets  were  made  out  of  lead,  lead, 
lead. 

The  second  shot  he  tried, 
He  neatly  winged  his  guide  — 
Who  was  certainly  annoyed,  from  what  he  said, 
said,  said! 


85 


'  I  VHERE  was  a  young  woman,  her  name  it  was 
1  Peg. 

She  was  all  right,  but  she  wore  a  pine  leg. 
When  Algy  found  out  he  was  dealing  in  lumber, 
He  changed  his  address  and  his  telephone  number. 


Little  Tee  Wee 


T   ITTLE  Tee  Wee,  went  fishing  at  sea, 
•~       About  five  a.  m.,  in  a  dory. 
He  drank  all  the  bait  and  by  half-past  eight, 
A  squall  put  an  end  to  the  story. 


86 


The  Slacker 

HERMIONE,  you  think  that  I'm  a  slacker 
Because  I'm  not  in  khaki,  and,  forsooth, 
It's  a  thousand  to  a  moldy  soda  cracker 
It  would  break  your  heart  to  hear  the  simple  truth. 

In  my  make-up  there  is  nothing  of  the  stoic ; 

I'm  a  simple,  modest,  harmless  sort  of  guy 
Who  never  strikes  an  attitude  heroic 

And  wonders  if  he's  in  the  public  eye. 

Still  I'd  tolerate  for  you  the  frightful  stenches 
Of  seven  kinds  of  German  poisoned  gas, 

And  I'd  willingly  abide  in  noisome  trenches — 
Or,  like  Nebuchadnezzar,  live  on  grass. 

But,  darling,  though  with  love  my  heart  is  splitting, 
I'm  afraid  that  when  I  came  to  say  good-bye, 

You  would  make  me  swear  to  wear  the  things  you're 

knitting — 
And,  sweetheart,  I  should  hate  to  tell  a  He. 


87 


THE  RUBY  YAP  OF 
HOMER    K      YAM 


With  Biographical  Data 
and    Explanatory    Notes 


*A  small  edition  of  The  Ruby  Yap  was  previously  printed  for 
private  circulation. 


89 


"Thou  art  no  Houri — or  the  Prophet's  lied: 

And  if  thou  art  the  Spirit  of  the  Wine, 
I'll  smash  the  Cup  I've  never  yet  decried." 


Biographical  Data 


HOMER  K.  YAM,  whose  full  name  (he  was 
usually  full)  was  Homer  *Khasi  Yam,  was 
born  towards  the  close  of  the  last  century, 
of  Italian  parentage,  in  a  fashionable  summer  re- 
sort on  the  sea  coast  of  Serbia.  His  mother  was 
of  plebian  origin  and  died,  happily,  shortly  after 
Homer's  birth,  but  his  father  was  a  man  of  some 
prominence,  having  acquired  considerable  wealth 
while  serving  as  a  captain  of  the  Venetian  Mounted 
Police. 

Homer,  having  at  an  early  age  given  unmis- 
takable evidences  of  unusual  talent  both  in  mathe- 
matics and  poetry,  was,  when  still  very  young, 
sent  by  his  father  to  study  abroad  at  one  of  the 
large  American  universities,  where  it  was  hoped  he 
would  develop  his  natural  gifts. 

While  at  college  he  became  addicted  to  the  use 
of  Turkish  cigarettes,  and  it  is  supposed  it  was  this 
habit  that  gave  such  a  strong  Oriental  color  to  his 
imagination. 

Homer  applied  his  mathematical  gifts  to  the 
revision  of  the  calendar  and  is  said  to  have  made 
more  dates  than  any  other  student  of  his  day.  He 
also  had  the  gift  of  language  strongly  developed; 
he  spoke  five  tongues  fluently  and  could  order 
drinks  in  no  less  than  fifteen. 


*A  form  of  mural  decoration  used  in  Persia.  A  name  conferred 
upon  Yam  because  of  his  fondness  for  decorating1  in  roseate 
tints  the  towns  he  visited. 

91 


The  similarity  of  his  name  when  quickly  pro- 
nounced, to  that  of  the  Tent  Maker  of  Naishapur, 
led  him  to  believe  that  he  was  the  reincarnation  of 
the  Persian  poet;  and  this  belief  was  shared  by 
many  of  his  friends,  especially  when  he  was  buying 
wine  in  Babylon  (L.  I.). 

The  Ruby  Yap,  which  was  written  after  he  had 
fled  into  the  (N.  J.)  Desert,  is  supposed  to  be  a 
description  of  his  interview  with  his  wife  on  waking 
up  and  discovering,  much  to  his  surprise,  that  he 
was  married.  It  is  the  best  of  his  productions  and 
is  believed  to  reflect  his  philosophy  of  life. 

Never  having  been  (except  in  early  childhood) 
any  farther  East  than  Patchogue,  nor  having 
dipped  very  deep  into  Oriental  literature,  his  poem 
is  full  of  anachronisms  and  clearly  shows  his  lack 
of  information;  but  the  beauty  and  purity  of  his 
verse  are  acknowledged  and  prove  how  a  taste  of 
cigarettes,  cocktails  and  vintage  wine  if  con- 
sistently indulged  may  develop  the  poetic  instinct. 

The  Hayphiz  referred  to  by  Yam  was  a  success- 
ful brewer  who  sought  fame  as  a  poet ;  apparently 
he  made  good  beer  but  bad  poetry.  Hayphiz  felt 
so  greatly  flattered  at  Homer's  fulsome  praise  of 
his  literary  efforts  that  he  would  in  moments  of 
ecstasy  discount  the  Poet's  notes.  Thus: 

"Hayphiz  was  rich,  his  poetry  was  vile; 
I  praised  his  awful  verse  and  rotten  style." 

And  as  an  apology  for  this  duplicity,  Yam  adds : 

"I  needed  cash:    By  artful  flattery 
I  could  occasionally  tap  his  pile." 

92 


Again  in  moments  of  resentment  he  says  bit- 
terly and  evidently  with  the  same  party  in  mind: 

"The  Butcher's  robe  is  lined  with  otter  warm, 
And  Persian  lamb  enfolds  the  Brewer's  form 
Against  the  stinging  blasts  of  winter  winds. 
While  Art,  in  tatters,  shivers  in  the  storm." 

But  Yam's  deft  and  gentle  touch  eventually  got 
him  into  trouble;  for  Hayphiz,  waking  up  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  being  systematically  strung  and 
stung,  put  up  a  job  on  Yam,  and,  during  the  course 
of  a  wild  night, 

"Compared  to  which  Old  Jamshyd's  gilded  feasts 
Were  mere  diversions  for  an  Anchorite." 

he  introduced  the  Poet  to  Ruby,  "the  thing  of 
freckles  and  vermilion  hair,  but  with  a  pot  of 
shekels,"  and  got  him  to  marry  her  in  the  hope  of 
collecting  his  I.  O.  U.S. 

But  true  genius  never  recognized  an  obligation, 
moral  or  legal;  hence  when  Homer  saw  what  had 
been  handed  to  him,  he  concluded  to  seize  his  jug 
and 

".  .  .  .  Beat  it  on  the  run, 
Into  the  dusty  Desert's  very  heart, 
And  there  achieve  one,  everlasting  Bun!" 


93 


The  Ruby  Yap  of 
Homer  K.  Yam 

i 

AWAKE!  ill-favored  visitation  spare, 
Thou  thing  of  freckles  and  vermilion  hair! 
How  comes  it  that  beside  me  on  my  couch, 
Ifind  thee  snoozing  in  the  sunlight's  glare? 

II 

For  full  two  hours  have  I  racked  my  brain — 
My  thumping,  jumping  dome  of  thought — (and 

pain) — 

For  explanation  of  this  mystery, 
But,  by  Great  Kaikobad !  'tis  all  in  vain, 

III 

Don't  I  remember?  pray  remember  what? 
Much  I  remember,  but  still  more  forgot. 

Thou  sayest  thou  art  Ruby,  surnamed  Yap? 
And  that  on  New  Year's  Eve  I  wed  thee  ?  Rot ! 

IV 

I,  Homer  Yam,  espoused  thee  New  Year's  Eve, 
And  ere  the  ceremony  did  receive 

From  thee  one  hundred  thousand  miskals,  cash? 
And  this  thou  dost  expect  me  to  believe? 


95 


V 

Pull  no  such  ancient  jest  on  me,  I  pray. 
I  wed  the  Daughter  of  the  Vine,  last  May, 

Divorced  Old  Lady  Reason  weeks  before; 
So  get  thee  hence,  or  pipe  some  other  lay! 


VI 

Thou  art  not  human,  hence  no  mortal's  bride. 
Thou  art  no  Houri — or  the  Prophet's  lied: 

And  if  thou  art  the  Spirit  of  the  Wine, 
I'll  smash  the  Cup  I've  never  yet  decried. 

VII 

And  yet — By  Mahmud !— there  doth  break  a  light ! 
Some  recollections  have  I  of  a  night, 

Compared  to  which  Old  Jamshyd's  gilded  feasts, 
Were  mere  diversions  for  an  Anchorite! 

VIII 

The  Demon  Debt,  sat  heavy  on  my  soul 
And  mocked  me  as  he  handed  me  the  Bowl ; 

I  mocked  him  back,  though  well  enough  I  knew, 
Who  takes  the  Vine-Clad  Road  must  pay  the  toll. 

IX 

I  recollect  old  Hayphiz  sitting  near — 
My  Creditor — he  whispered  in  my  ear: 
"Look!  tis  Ruby — the  Daughter  of  a  Pot — 
But  with  a  pot  of  shekels — grab  her — here !" 

96 


X 

Hayphiz  was  rich;  his  poetry  was  vile; 
I  praised  his  awful  verse  and  rotten  style. 

I  needed  Cash;  by  artful  flattery 
I  could  occasionally  tap  his  pile. 

XI 

What's  that?  I'm  much  mistaken?  Thou  art  not 
By  any  means  the  Daughter  of  a  Pot? 

I  meant  to  say  a  Potter;  let  it  pass — 
At  any  rate  he  fixed  me  on  the  spot. 

XII 

That's  when  we  met !  Now  mem'ry  comes  apace. 
Thou  hadst  a  hundred  thousand — and  a  Face ! 

To  steel  myself  against  the  awful  deed, 
I  emptied  seven  flagons  in  one  place! 

XIII 

'Twas  then  I  started  in  to  make  things  hum 
From  Naishapur  to  Babylon — that's  some! 

And  then  I  took  thee  to  the  Holy  Mosque — 
By  instinct — for  my  senses  were  still  numb. 

XIV 

From  Babylon  I  pirouetted  back 
Through  places  on  and  off  the  Camel's  Track: 
I  thought  to  lose  thee  in  the  desert  wastes — 
And  here  thou  art  in  Naishapur,  alack! 


97 


XV 

So  thou  art  Ruby !  Well,  thine  eyes  are  red, 
So  is  thy  nose — so  also  is  thy  head — 

And  judging  from  thy  make-up  scattered  'round, 
A  reconstructed  Ruby  have  I  wed ! 

XVI 

O,  Noble  House  of  Yam !  See  what  a  drug 
Upon  the  mart  is  Family!  Yon  Rug 

In  human  form  must  e'en  thy  scion  wed 
Or  starve!  Henceforth  my  solace  is  the  Jug! 

XVII 

Why  not?  What  Creed  is  worthy  of  belief? 
One  preaches  Happiness,  is  found  in  Grief; 
One  teaches  Truth,  another  lauds  Deceit ; 
Rags  adorn  the  Honest,  and  silk,  the  Thief. 

XVIII 

Nor  think  that  I  profess  the  least  pretense 
To  that  rare  state  of  mind  called  Common  Sense. 
There's  no  such  thing — or  if  there  be,  it  comes 
Too  late  in  life  to  be  of  consequence. 

XIX 

Hold,  save  thy  breath — waste  not  thy  words  on  me; 
Heed  thou  instead  and  let  me  preach  to  thee; 
Long  have  I  lived,  little  have  I  learned,  yet 
These  bitter  fruits  I've  gathered  from  the  Tree : 


98 


XX 

I  only  prize  what's  far  beyond  my  reach: 
The  Quince  I  spurn  evolves  into  a  Peach: 

My  Peach  plucked  from  a  sun-kissed  Oasis 
Dissolves  into  a  thing  of  paint  and  bleach. 

XXI 

I  yearn  for  food  my  empty  purse  denies: 
A  pheasant,  say,  or  maybe  currant  pies. 
My  wish  attained  by  accident,  and  lo ! 
The  pheasant's  goose — the  currants  merely  flies! 

XXII 

The  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell  is  just  this : 
When  Pleasure's  cheap  it  ceases  to  be  Bliss! 
The  coy,  elusive  maiden  turns  coquette — 
And  interest  no  more  centers  in  her  kiss. 


XXIII 

The  coy,  illusive  maid  grown  coyer  still, 
Doth  yield  at  last  unto  a  master  will: 

And  lo!  too  soon  the  victor  fails  to  find 
In  kissing  her  the  customary  thrill. 

XXIV 

So  that  the  cares  of  life  I  may  forget, 
I  drink  myself  into  the  depths  of  debt; 

To  drown  in  wine  or  swim  in  sober  woe, 
Remains  a  problem  quite  unsolved  as  yet. 


99 


XXV 

What  good's  Philosophy  if  unapplied? 
The  greatly  famed  Physician  never  tried 

His  bitter  pills  upon  himself,  grown  sick, 
But  took  another's  physic  and — he  died. 

XXVI 

To  do  forever  and  to  falter  not ; 
One  wish  denied  doth  leave  a  sore  spot 
That  will  in  recollection  rankle  long; 
Ten  favors  done  are  merely  deeds  forgot! 

XXVII 

The  Present  and  the  Future  only  count — 
The  thirsty  do  not  seek  an  empty  fount — 

The  Faithful  Steed  grown  old,  is  auctioned  off, 
And  in  his  place,  behold  a  younger  mount ! 

XXVIII 

A  Fig  of  Genius — Learning — great  or  small ! 
Mere  subjects  for  an  epitaph — that's  all ; 

But  here,  upon  this  Sphere,  give  me  cold  Cash, 
No  Conscience  and  a  monumental  Gall. 

XXIX 

The  Four-Flush  lounges  in  his  limousine; 
The  Hot-Air  Broker  with  a  lordly  mien 

Doth  motor  by  and  fling  in  Talent's  face 
The  noxious  vapor  of  cheap  gasolene. 

100 


XXX 

The  Butcher's  robe  is  lined  with  otter  warm; 
And  Persian  lamb  enfolds  the  Brewer's  form 
Against  the  stinging  blasts  of  winter  winds, 
While  Art,  in  tatters,  shivers  in  the  storm. 

XXXI 

An  Artist's  soul,  ambition,  noble  birth, 
A  dreamer,  I,  upon  a  sordid  earth! 

A  Sultan's  tastes,  I  spurn  the  Common  Herd — 
Yet  hating  gold  for  its  intrinsic  worth. 

XXXII 

I,  only  with  a  Sultan  would  hobnob, 
So  blow  my  income  to  maintain  the  job; 

Too  late  I  find,  who  follows  such  a  plan, 
Is  either  Fool,  Philanthropist  or  Snob. 

XXXIII 

The  Scheme  of  Life  is  unfulfilled  desire: 
To  buy,  to  sell,  be  sold  in  turn,  conspire; 

One  day  of  smiles  for  every  year  of  ire — 
And  when  the  Dawn  of  Reason  breaks — expire. 

XXXIV 

Upon  the  Yams,  the  Green  Jinn  launched  a  curse — 
The  curse  of  budding  Genius,  sans  a  purse. 
A  Genius — yea,  I'd  better  been  a  Hawk 
Than  hawker  of  unmarketable  verse! 

101 


XXXV 

I  banish  Art  and  kiss  the  Muse  adieu: 
Espouse  the  Mob,  divorce  the  Learned  Few; 

I  seek  the  filthy  lucre  since  I  must, 
And  get  it,  Great  Mahomet! — and  Thou,  too! 

XXXVI 

Thou  sayest  what?    That  Beauty's  nought— 
That  wise  men  o'er  the  world  have  Riches  sought, 

For  Beauty  fades  but  Cash  endures?  'Tis  so. 
But  here  upon  that  subject  is  my  thought: 

XXXVII 

The  Tree  of  Wealth,  a  million  on  each  bough, 
A  Paradise  of  luxury  and  thou, 

Beside  me  every  morning  when  I  waked, 
And  Paradise  were  Wilderness  enow! 

XXXVIII 

So,  ere  the  stars  succeed  to  this  day's  sun, 
I'll  seize  my  Jug  and  beat  it  on  the  run 
Into  the  dusty  Desert's  very  heart, 
And  there  achieve  one,  everlasting  Bun! 


102 


Notes 


XII 


"To  steel  myself  against  the  awful  deed 
"I  emptied  seven  flagons  in  one  place." 

This  couplet  is  a  trifle  obscure.  The  "awful  deed" 
was  not  the  emptying"  of  seven  flagons  (this  being 
a  pleasure),  but  the  determination  to  wed  the  Lady 
of  the  Face. 

XIII 

"From   Naishapur   to   Babylon — that's   some! 

And  then  I  took  thee  to  the  Holy  Mosque — 
By  instinct — for  my  senses  were  still  numb." 

Naishapur  was  probably  Jamaica  on  the  road  to 
Babylon.  The  last  couplet  is  a  striking  evidence 
of  Yam's  ignorance  of  the  religion  of  Islam. 
Women  are  forbidden  to  enter  the  Mosque.  He 
says  he  took  her  there  by  instinct.  The  church 
would  be  the  last  place  to  which  his  instinct  would 
direct  him. 

XIV 

"Through  places  on  and  off  the  Camel's  Track." 

The  "Camel's  Track"  probably  referred  to  the 
L.  I.  R.  R.  It  is  rather  a  neat  metaphor  but  some- 
what uncomplimentary  to  the  patient,  reliable 
camel.  Travellers  over  this  route  have  compared 
the  slow  progress  of  trains  across  the  dusty,  sandy 
stretches  and  the  ancient  equipment  falling  into 
picturesque  decay,  to  Oriental  transportation  on 
the  back  of  the  swaying  dromedary. 

103 


XX 

"My  Peach,  plucked  from  a  sun-kissed  Oasis." 

This  is  poetic  but  unscientific.  No  one  learned  in 
Eastern  lore  would  ever  accuse  the  Persian  sun  of 
anything  so  soft  and  sentimental  as  osculation. 
The  business  of  an  Oasis,  according  to  the  best 
authorities,  is  to  provide  a  place  of  shelter  against 
the  sizzling  sun. 

XXXVIII 

"Into  the  dusty  Desert's  very  heart." 

The  Desert  into  which  Yam  fled  was  Ocean 
Grove,  N.  J.,  the  driest  as  well  as  the  loneliest  spot 
on  the  seaboard.  There  he  attempted  to  put  his 
threat  into  execution,  meanwhile  writing  his  im- 
mortal poem,  which,  fortunately,  he  had  completed 
before  the  town  constable  chased  him  and  his  jug 
into  the  sea. 


104 


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